Present Perfect
by Skull Bearer
Summary: Sequel to Past Tense. Rebuilding in Palestine, Erik and Charles begin to learn how to live, together, in the outside world. Coming to terms with their past, their powers, and the changing and sometimes treacherous world around them  Charles/Erik slash.
1. Chapter 1

**Present Perfect**

Chapter One

Erik wakes up in fragments, each piece slowly coming to, part by part as though carefully testing the outside world for danger. Charles doesn't open his eyes, preferring to let Erik do it for him. The room is whitewashed and golden in slants where the sunlight slips past the blankets they've tacked up as curtains. Blink, grey lashes closing briefly. Amusement. "Wake up Charles."

The spoken words echo through both their minds, and Charles smiles and rolls over, finally opening his eyes when he's lying on top of Erik. "Awake."

Erik's eyes are still half closed, colourless in the dim light. Even this early, the air is stuffy and their bodies are clammy with sweat under thin sheets. Charles right about one thing when it comes to this place: they will not be cold here. Erik traces one finger down the back of Charles' neck. It sends shivers down his spine. He presses his lips against Erik's, tasting sleep gone dreamless since they've started standing guard in each other's heads.

Erik's back arches, his throat temptingly exposed; and it's a pity they have to get up and unmake the spare bed before anyone comes to wake them for breakfast. Charles unpeels himself reluctantly and Erik sits up on his elbows, running his fingers through his silver hair - it's almost down to his cheekbones now. Erik catches that thought and smiles; "I do need to get it cut."

Charles makes a face and Erik gets up, linking his fingers together, stretching them above his head in a stretch. His bones creak as his naked body arches, skin pulling still tighter against too-prominent bones. Charles presses a kiss on his left shoulder. Erik's eyes are still half-lidded, "Just because you have no hair, does not mean I have to make up for it." He kisses Charles back anyway.

It's like every other morning, a routine so engrained they could do it with their eyes closed. Charles unmakes and remakes the bed that is supposed to be his while Erik picks out their clothes. Then to the scullery across the hall to wash and dress - Erik doing up Charles' belt as he does up his friend's shirt buttons. A glance in the mirror and yes, Charles thinks he is finally getting used to his own reflection. Then down the stairs in rough and half-fastened shoes to the kitchen on the ground floor. Charles isn't quite awake yet because he can feel the other minds clawing at his, and digs himself further into Erik's - draw the curtains, lock the doors, away away away, far away. Back to the one and only place he knows will now and forever be safe.

* * *

><p>Charles' presence is like a tickle on the edge of thought as they enter the kitchen. It's cool and dark here, despite wide open windows letting in the light and noise of Tel Aviv at seven in the morning. Doctor Allens, the head of their small hospital, is already at the table, and gives them a nod as they come in and sit down. "Sleep well?"<p>

They don't answer, but then they never do. Erik hasn't a clue what to say. Yes thank you because Charles finds any nightmares and strangles them before they get really bad, so all my dreams are aborted before I start screaming and wake your patients? He doesn't feel like lying at this time of the morning.

Allens has stopped expecting an answer, because he just nods at the toast for them to help themselves. There's strawberry jam today, as well as the ever-present marmalade. The room is silent except for the crunch of their teeth and bread. The nurses on the nightshift must have already gone to bed, because apart from them, the only one who comes in is the older nurse who usually does the cooking. She grunts and grumbles as she sits down. "Leave some for the rest of us, will you? God, you're not in the camps any more, slow down. You'll give yourselves stomach ache -"

"We had a letter from Shomron this morning." Allens interrupts in his mild way, pulling out a crumpled sheet of paper - everything seems to get crumpled around Doctor Allens. Even at seven his pressed shirt is a mass of wrinkles.

Erik pauses, crewing more slowly on the crusts. Charles has stopped entirely, watching attentively.

"He's doing well in Haifa, they've moved to a pile of a place on the outskirts, says the quiet's good for the patients." Allens glances over the paper at Erik and Charles. "He sends you his best, and that the girl you were with hasn't shown any improvement yet, but they're still trying."

Erik wishes them the best, but is deeply glad they were chosen to remain in Tel Aviv with Doctor Allens. The man is quiet and patient, while Shomron's loud boisterousness would have driven him insane within a week. He can't imagine it would be any better for the patients.

"Anyway, the funds are coming through to us next week, so that's some good news." The letter is folded, but Allens is still looking at them. "Could I have you two on the first and second floor today? Come to us if you need anything or if there are any problems."

They nod together. Erik wonders what it must look like, they two of them moving as one. Allens looks uncomfortable.

It is the first time he's suggested the two of them work apart, which is ghastly, but with Charles in his head it isn't as unbearable as it once was, and really, they do need to learn how to work apart, if only out of necessity. If he closes his eyes he can travel back along their link and look out through Charles's eyes. It's a strange feeling, but a warm and comfortable one, as pleasant as the constant hum of the metal bedsteads as he starts mopping the floor. They weren't the first ones here and there are almost thirty patients, spread over two floors. With one doctor, four nurses and two aids to take care of them.

It's peaceful here. The whitewashed stone walls are cool, and the netting at the windows glows with the sunlight. Erik starts to relax a little, leaving the floor to dry and closing his eyes. Charles is checking his patients over for bedsores, turning those who cannot move or who are strapped down to keep from hurting themselves. He feels Charles smile and a slow, alien shiver runs down Erik's spine, as though someone had run their finger down the middle of his back. It's good. It's quiet, and peaceful and good. He is glad they came.

He is turning the woman with the chewed hands – now tied down, eyes empty and staring at nothing – when the cry brings him to his knees. It's deafening and piercing and goes on and on and on. He clamps his hands over his ears, only to realise it's coming from inside his head.

* * *

><p>No, no no no <em>not again<em>! Somewhere in the back of Charles' mind he's aware of the cold floor under him, and the groans of the patient whose mind burst into his without warning. For a moment he was still in the hospital and then a blink, a heartbeat and he's in the camps again, kneeling on the ground because he can't get up and those are his children - _I have children? - _and they are being shot in front of him. It doesn't end, it never ends. There's nothing outside of this. He's alone and there's no way out and _Erik where are you_. Pain and pain and pain and he's watching them die over and over because whenever it ends it just starts again from the beginning. He's back _here_ and he never left and never can leave because it's _inside his head_ like the gas chambers and the flames and now _this_. Over and over again he's crawling towards them and then the guns fire over and over again and his son falls over and over again and he can barely feel his fingers where they're digging into his face and his head banging against the tiled floor _make it stop_. Anything, everything but please just _make it stop._

Charles is on his knees in the bathroom, with his head in the sink. Erik's holding him from behind, warm, bony arms wrapped around his chest and it's like tuning into a radio station, Erik must have been shouting for a while but Charles can only now hear him.

"- You're not there, you're out of there now wake up! Charles please it's gone it's not there please-"

Charles draws in a breath that tastes like fog mixed with razor blades. He's soaked head and shoulders - Erik must have tried to wake him that way – and shaking so hard his hands are jumping like spiders. Another breath and he slumps backwards on his heels. His head is pounding and everything hurts. He gingerly touches an aching spot on the back of his head and his fingers come away bloody.

"You were banging it on the floor. I could hear you screaming." Erik sits down next to him on the damp bathroom floor. He looks pale and touches Charles's face gently.

"Did anyone else hear?" His voice is so soft he can barely hear it himself.

"No, you were screaming in your head." Erik shakes his head, "It was all I could feel from you, you cut everything else off."

"Good." Charles hugs his knees. The violent images are fading slowly, but he's glad Erik didn't have to see them. Erik slides closer and puts an arm around him. The sick feeling is slowly fading, and the sunlight through the window is warming him.

Erik gently touches his chin and turns Charles' face towards him. "What was it?" His voice is just as soft. "Did... did it happen again?"

Charles nods. He doesn't want to leave the room. Leaving means going back out to the ward, and it could happen again at any time. He can try to bury himself completely in Erik's mind, but the moment they'll separate, it'll happen again, it's only a matter of time.

Erik's rubbing his back, and Charles leans against him, he can feel his anger, frustrated by not having anyone to vent it on. The only person he could blame would be Charles – and he does, although he's trying to crush the thought. If only he could just control himself - Erik doesn't know what it's like, even with their minds connected. He doesn't have to worry about the metal he touches turning back to bite him. The worst it does it not react at all.

* * *

><p>"Hello? Are you two in there?" It's Allens. Erik's anger latches on to this welcome target. The doctor was the one who suggested they separate, if he hadn't said it-<p>

"You're being ridiculous." Charles murmurs, then unhooks Erik's arm and gets up.

Allens frowns at them when they emerge from the bathroom. They're both pale and shaken, and Charles' shirt is soaked through. The man whose mind he touched is loose and back to banging his head against the bedstead. Charles wants to vomit at the sight. He got out of this nightmare, but the man doesn't have that option. Allens doesn't know any of this and just straps the man back down before going back to frowning at them, hands on hips.

And maybe he's not as securely buried in Erik's mind as he would like, because he can feel Allens' as well. There's _well what else did I expect_? And _really, the two of them should be in one of the beds, not running around like this, but we're short-staffed as it is_, and a quick reshuffling of rotas for the day as _they're clearly in no state to do anything until lunchtime at least_.

Charles glances at the ground like a scolded child. Allens has been nothing but decent to the two of them, despite Erik's quick temper and his... problems. He can see how much more difficult he's making the man's job. The doctor sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Can you two work downstairs at least? We still haven't finished clearing out the back courtyard and Mrs Gunther thinks we could set up a storehouse in there. She's down there now, but tell her she'll be on the second floor. Understood?"

They both nod, and the moment they're out on the stairs Charles stops and hold his head in his hands, as though his could gather his thoughts manually and stop them from wandering to the rows and rows of beds where can see the ghosts of a thousand nightmares waiting for him.

Erik takes him by the arm and quickly marches him downstairs, and Charles can see him think that if he gets Charles away from these people quickly enough, it won't happen again.

They stop at the kitchen for glasses of water. Nurse Gunther is there and is not too happy to be told to head upstairs. She glares and Charles shudders, clearly picking something up from her. Erik bares his teeth at her and she sniffs, "No better than animals," before stalking upstairs.

The water seems to calm Charles, and Erik takes advantage of the empty kitchen to put his arms back around his friend. Charles gives a low sigh and relaxes for the first time since breakfast. He buries his face in Erik's shoulder, trying to shut out the rest of the world and running their minds into a long feedback loop of each other. Some uncertain time later he looks up. "Do you feel better?" Erik asks.

Charles nods, his hand goes to the bloody lump at the back of his head and starts cleaning himself off at the sink. Erik crosses his arms and bites his lip. "What can I do?"

Charles blinks at him, a mental '?'

"If this ever happens again. What can I do to stop it?"

Charles' hands tighten on the sink, a shiver of terror. "I don't know. Try and get me away perhaps. I don't know how this works."

It's not an answer that satisfies either of them. "Can you make it stop?" Erik suggests finally.

Another quizzical look. "You stop me from having nightmares." Erik explains. "Could you stop them?"

The spike of terror makes Erik shake, Charles looks panic stricken. "No, you don't understand -" it comes in a rush of images. Fragments that must have come from the man's dreams, and some from earlier, old horrors. _Don't make me look at it again_.

He must have moved to hug Charles again, although he doesn't remember doing so. It no longer feels strange to do so. It feels natural, like two pieces of the same whole. He presses a kiss to Charles' bare head. He won't insist, but he cannot think of another way of dealing with this. Charles' mind is not going to stop working like this if he asks nicely.

_I know. Please. I just...can't do it right now. It's just too much. I can't control it like you can_. There's a feeling like trying to hold onto water.

_ Shh, it's fine._ It's not, he wants Charles to stop being scare of his own mind, but it's unfair. However they were made able to do these things, whether as part of some SS experiment or from – Erik can't even think of another explanation and sticks for the first one; Erik was the lucky one. There is nothing painful about the welcoming hum of metal and being able to empty bedpans without using your hands. He can feel Charles digging through the shifting land of his mind – painless if alien – trying to shelter himself from the outside world.

* * *

><p>The courtyard outside is an extravagant name of a dusty patch of packed hard earth, half sheltered by an overhang – it looks like it was once a garage – the rest cut off from the street by a high wooden fence, it looks new, probably put up when this place was turned into a refugee hospital. The ground is covered in rubbish of all kind, and it looks as though people on the street have been disposing of their trash by throwing it over the fence. Not exactly pleasant work, but it's away from the hospital.<p>

He can feel the people on the street, as they start sifting through the rubbish, but their thoughts are more closed off than those of the patients, and they pass by quickly enough that Charles can only catch pieces of their thoughts. If he focuses on other things, the noise dies down to a low growl of static, like a badly tuned radio.

Charles blinks, there is a radio. Half the wires have been ripped out and the aerial's been bent almost in half, but Erik takes it and frowns at it and it straightens good as new. Erik grins, for a moment the years slip off and he looks about twelve. _Look what I've done!_

"Do you think you can get it working?" Charles tries not to sound too eager. He could finally find out what is going on in the outside world without actually venturing there. Doctor Allens doesn't buy newspapers and those he's seen haven't been in English.

Erik frowns at it, and Charles can feel him probing the radio in a way that doesn't use hands or Charles' erratic skill but something else, unique to him. "It has a lot of parts missing, and I don't know how radios work." He blinks and looks at Charles. "Would you like it?" Erik doesn't really care what is happening outside their little kingdom of two, and his interactions with the outside world have been overwhelmingly negative, but if Charles wants it...

Charles smiles, and no answer is needed.

Most of the rubbish is gathered to the far end of the courtyard, closest to the fence. There's not much organic waste, which is a relief, mostly broken bottles and old newspapers – one's even in English, Charles puts it aside to look at later. It looks two months old, trumpeting the headline 'War in Europe at an End!" – Erik picks out pieces of metal like a magpie and frowns at the comparison. Charles sees a flash in his mind of an old box with separate compartments for a twisted piece of copper wire, a lump of black iron, a rusty cog, a half-corroded piece of tin. A piece of sorrow, wondering what happened to his collection. Erik shakes the thoughts away and picks up the lid of an old can. The rust sloughs off like a snake shedding its skin, and it begins to spin above Erik's hand, catching the light and flashing like a mirror.

It is only when they've finished clearing out the side of the covered area furthest from the door that they see what this place was actually used for. It was a garage, and there are the remains of an ancient motorcycle buried under the wreckage. It's very old, covered in patches of rust with gaping holes in the tyres, the leather seat cracked and torn. Erik is looking at it very intently.

Charles smiles, Erik doesn't notice, he's entirely focused on the motorcycle. The radio would be a challenge to repair, and he would enjoy having something to do, but _this_. This would be amazing, a project he could focus on for weeks, just to see if he could actually do it. It would be nice to have proof to show Charles that what they could do would be useful as well as a liability – He realises he's being overhead and ducks his head. Charles rests a hand on his shoulder, _it's fine_. It's more than fine. Charles likes the idea of having a way of getting out should things get bad again. The motorcycle isn't very large, but it's big enough for both of them. The name on its tank says _Ariel_. Erik is running his hands over the handlebars, not quite touching, and the rust is falling in their wake.

Charles crouches next to him. "If we finish clearing the yard, Allens is more likely to let you keep it."

Erik blinks, having not even considered the idea they might be allowed to keep the motorcycle. _It doesn't belong to anyone_.

"It came with the hospital, so I think it belongs to Allens."

"And what would he do with it?" Erik mutters, he tries to put it upright and fails, the muscles in this thin arms standing out like wires. He frowns at the motorbike, and Charles can feel his mind pulling at it, demanding it move. It rocks a little, and Erik manages to get it wedged against the brickwork.

* * *

><p>They go in briefly for lunch – a sandwich each and a salad – then out again, and by the end of the day they're both scratched and aching and sunburnt. Nurse Gunther tuts over them as though they were foolish children or the patients upstairs. It grinds Erik's already brittle nerves.<p>

_ Don't antagonise anyone when we're about to ask for something._ Charles glances at him, and he subsides with a sigh.

They will have to start this conversation. It's a little intimidating. They don't seek out company and don't talk unless they have to. Charles begins, "We found a radio."

Doctor Allens looks at them; it's hard to say if he is more surprised at hearing them speak, or what Charles said. "Back there?"

"Yes,"

"And does it work?"

"Erik thinks he can get it working." Charles glances at him when he says this, a mental prompt. Erik nods. He is not sure how to lead into this, so he just does:

"There was a motorcycle too. I believe I could get it working as well."

Allens looks at him appraisingly. "A motorcycle?"

"Yes, if we can have it?" Charles this time.

"I don't see why not, if you can get the radio working it'll be more than worth it, and it's not as though we can pay either of you yet."

* * *

><p>Allens is re-evaluating the two of them. Previously they were in a strange limbo place between aids and patients, unpaid except for their keep, but they are useful and Allens is guilty he's spent the last lot of money without offering them any, figuring their keep is enough pay. <em>If they want any of that old rubbish they're welcome to it<em>; and a radio would be helpful.

Charles closes his eyes and tries to pull his mind away, "Thank you." The words echo strangely in the ears of three people. He can't seem to block them out, it's like trying to cover yourself with sand, it just slips off, or sheltering inside a house full of holes where the wind can still cut in. He wants to clap his hands over his ears to block it out but it's not stopping – he can't stop it. Unlike Erik he can't find an off switch and the thoughts just pile in like rain.

"Can we go to bed?" The words reverberate through his skull, but anything's worth leaving, he can't stand it here.

"Best sleep late; we'll have you on night duty tomorrow." Allens waves them off. "Good night."

They wash off and Erik holds him until he's stopped shaking. "I can't make it stop."

Erik hushes him, his arms are warm and now, alone in their little attic, everything is quiet but for their thoughts. Charles' head pounds as he tucks it under Erik's chin.

"You are going to have to face them." Erik whispers.

"I can't." To walk in there is to walk back through the gates. Breathless terror.

"And tomorrow? They will still be there. We have nowhere else to go."

"Then tomorrow. Not now. Please." He can feel Erik's impatience, and his utter faith that if Charles would just go down to the wards he can make them go quiet, that he is strong enough if he would just try and not be afraid. It's almost sweet.

"Tomorrow then. But you have to do this."

Charles can breathe again; he doesn't care when, just not now.

* * *

><p>Erik awakens to heat. Charles is kissing him, hot and hard, a slash of tongue across his lips. Erik groans and his hands fist into the sheets. Charles is straddling him, thighs wrapped around his waist, hands on his shoulders. Erik groans, and kisses back, drowning in their entangled minds and lust. His hands climb up to Charles' thighs and smiles when he pulls back, he can taste Charles' panting breaths against his lips. "Are you trying to distract me? It won't work."<p>

"Shh." _I don't want to think of that now, enjoy this, and let me enjoy this_.

"Yes." _Yesyesyesyes always yes. It will never be no_.

Charles' hands splay over his chest, fingers in the grooves between his ribs, thumbs flicking over his nipples, pinching and twisting and making him gasp. Charles lowers his head, scoots back and follows his hands with his tongue. Hot and sharp, the room is already warm, and this is fire. He can taste his own skin on Charles' tongue, and Charles' mind flashes with the same lightning in his own.

_ Don't want to wait. Hurry up_. He has no idea which of them thought that, but Charles scoots further back and swallows him down without warning. Erik almost bucks off the bed, his hand coming up to cover his mouth and stifle a shout. His mind is scrambled senseless, flashes of light and electricity and he can taste his own cock in Charles' mouth, and Charles is shivering in the feedback loop of pleasure. He licks up and down and pulls away and Erik gives a muffled sort of noise of protest. The room is warm, he knows that (although thinking is getting almost impossible) so why does it feel so cold?

Charles moves back up his body, and Erik's fingers dig into his hips, demanding. Now. Please. Now. He feels the muscles flex, and Charles' fingers preparing himself. His head drops back against the pillows, half laughing. It feels so good, so very good. There is nothing in the world better than this.

He bucks up again when Charles slides down, inside and through and around and surrounding hot and sweet and so very, very good. _Please yes please yes pleasepleaseplease_. Charles' head drops back and groans, the sound torn up from deep inside him. Erik's fingers are locked around his hipbones, nails digging in hungrily. His breaths come in coughs and gasps, trying to bites back moans and failing. He can feel Charles clenched around his cock, Charles' hand around his own cock, locked together in a cycle of pleasure, everything hot and burning and so very wonderful.

_ Open your eyes Erik_. Charles' thoughts are stuttered but still amused.

Erik's eyes are grainy and sticky with sleep, and the dim light is harsh against them, the first time he's opening them since sleeping. Charles' body is a golden outline in the light filtering through the curtains, head thrown back and his eyes are closed, the hypocrite. Charles smiles in his mind and lifts himself on his knees, then slides back down again, fucking himself and fisting his cock and projecting everything into Erik's mind, taking Erik's half blind pleasure and feeding it back over and over until it doesn't matter whether their eyes are open or closed, they're both blind with pleasure.

It's so good, everything hot and blazing and peaking until Erik arches a third time, coughs out a cry and comes endlessly. A second peak and Charles follows him, biting his hand to stifle his own cry. He collapses on top of Erik, pulling out and curling up as close as possible, mumbling something senseless and delicious. Erik opens his eyes again, half-lidded and dizzy, and presses a messy kiss against Charles' lips. Everything is hot and sticky and they're going to have to change the sheets _again_, but Charles is happy, curling around Erik's mind like a cat in front of a fire.

_ Yes, it was a distraction_. Charles smiles, and Erik kisses him again, brushing his thumb over his cheekbones. _But it worked, didn't it? And I wanted to-_ he holds up his hands and interlaces his fingers to illustrate_ to be able hold myself in your mind, so I could stay there when I try to_-

_ Yes_. Charles cannot even find the words in his own mind, and Erik can feel the fear snaking back into his mind through the post-coital bliss. He puts his arms back around him, Charles' skin is damp with sweat, and their bodies press together, fitting perfectly like two puzzle pieces, as though they were meant to be together, and always had been. _I will be there_. Ready to pull him away if it happened again.

Charles doesn't answer, but Erik can feel him once again try and bury himself in his mind, he tries to hold him in turn, but he cannot use his mind like Charles can, and the thoughts slip away like water. "I love you." He whispers instead.

"You're all that's good in the world." Charles mumbles. It fills Erik up like liquid sunlight.

Charles' eyes open, and they are like summer skies, endless blue around broad black pupils. Erik kisses him, first on the lips, then, when those eyes close again, on both eyelids.

_I love you._ Both of them together, endlessly.

* * *

><p>They don't go to breakfast at once, instead going directly to the second floor. The minds press on him. It's not as bad as yesterday, a constant murmur like conversation just out of hearing, but as he goes in the noise increases and the flashes of screams start to echo in his head.<p>

Charles stumbles, Erik catches his arm, the contact drives the voices away, leaving only Erik's buzz of worry and care. There's more than a touch of frustration there too. He doesn't understand, and Charles is glad of it really. It's a horrible feeling, and enough of Erik's life has been horrible that Charles is glad he's being spared this.

Charles pulls away. _Watch the door, please_. If he has to face this, he can't drag Erik into it. If he has to walk back through those gates, he'll do it alone. The thought makes him feel sick, and Erik must have caught that because he doesn't move.

The sounds return, he can catch glimpses of the nightmares around him. It's not all of them, but enough, they press in, a flash of a gun, the slam of a door, a scream, endless, going on and on. The cold, clenching fist of hungry that makes Charles stumble.

_ Stop_. He closes his eyes, holds out his hands like Samson destroying the temple – that was from Erik's mind, he realises – and _pushes_ in a way that has nothing to do with muscles.

_Stop. Please stop._ The sounds die away, but the moment he pulls away they come back, if anything even louder, a cacophony.

Charles stumbles and falls to his knees, Erik catches him before he hits the floor – his brittle bones risk breaking on the hard tiles. Charles pushes him away. He has to do this, he must do this or he will never be able to do anything or go anywhere. He will be a prisoner again.

_ Please, stop. Silence please._ His hands tremble, the sounds drop again. _Please, shhh_. He tries to soothe their minds, the way he does Erik when his sleeping mind jumps and shudders into a nightmare. Like smoothing out wrinkles in silk. Like wind over water, water on sand. _Shh_, everything levelling out, the cries fade.

* * *

><p>Erik is next to Charles, who is kneeling, arms outstretched as if to fly. And everything is silent. For a horrible moment, Erik thinks Charles has killed them – not because they are dead, it would be a mercy after being trapped in an endless nightmare, but because of what it would do to Charles – but no, they are all breathing. Deep, steady breaths, for deep, peaceful sleep.<p>

Charles' breaths are coming in half sobs, hands trembling where they are still outstretched. Erik kneels down in front of him, and pulls him into his arms where he belongs. Charles collapses against him; eyes still screwed shut, tears beading his lashes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Present Perfect**

Chapter Two

_Later part nicked shamelessly from Uncanny X-men: Legion Quest. But as that has Charles and Erik being massively homoerotic in Israel I think I'm entitled; particularly since it involves the phrase, I kid you not: 'Fourteen sailors later...'_

The outside is _bright_ and _deafening_ and too _fast._ Charles closes his eyes, trying to sort through the noise and the thoughts. Erik touches his hand and the worst of it fades, leaving him blinking in the dazzling early morning light. Tel Aviv is white. White houses, white sunlight, white dusty streets. Charles shades his eyes, even this early the heat is like having a bucket of sunlight poured over you. It's not yet burning though, and Charles will never complain of the heat.

It's their first time in the city since they arrived, one hot night where they had to wait at the docks while the patients were taken to the hospital in their one and only truck. It hadn't been this noisy. It hadn't been this _bright_.

The street the hospital is in is fairly quiet, but they can hear the noise of the main roads close by. There's a market, Allens had told them, and the fruit he had ordered wouldn't arrive until tomorrow, could they please-

At least he hadn't suggested they go separately. And sooner or later they would have to face the world. Charles would prefer it be later than sooner. Beside him, he saw Erik's jaw flex as he swallowed and jerked his head forwards, rag and bone defiance against the world that made Charles feel a little better. It's a loud and huge world before them, a world that has no reason to pay any attention to them. He tugs at Erik's hand, he can feel his friend trying to search everywhere for anything threatening. Erik blinks, and looks down, slightly embarrassed.

"I don't think we can be in any danger here." Charles says softly as they start walking towards the source of the din - the marketplace.

Erik nods, and looks up when a car whips past them, Charles can feel his mind trying to feel and catalogue all the parts. _One day you'll do that and the wheels will fall off_, he sends, and Erik gives a small smile.

"I wanted to see interesting places when I was younger," Charles continues, they really should get used to talking out loud, "I liked the idea of coming here, seeing some of the places I'd read about. Laurence of Arabia, you know."

"No I don't." Erik's still smiling. "Tell me about him."

It's odd, having a conversation with Erik like this, trying to remember bits of the Seven Pillars of Wisdom he read five years ago now. It feels a little fake, and part of Charles thinks it would be much easier just taking short cuts and showing Erik directly. But they do need to talk more, their voices are getting rusty from lack of use, and he missed the warm burr of Erik's accent when he speaks English. Their thoughts are without language, just meaning, and it's a luxury to hear him talk. Erik's never read the Seven Pillars of Wisdom, but he had read some books on Palestine, and as they walk together talking quietly about the strange new land they've found themselves in, Charles realises that if he angles his and Erik's thoughts just _so_, he can block the past out and reflect nothing but here and now, like a hall of mirrors.

It doesn't work very well, and it jars and breaks easily, but the world suddenly seems quite a bit brighter there's less to fear around them.

Erik blinks, looking around him. "Thank you." He sounds a little stunned. "You did that?"

Charles gives him a small smile, feeling lighter and happier than he has in a long time. It seems as though his strange skills could be useful after all.

"I did tell you." Erik's being too smug, Charles gives him a mental flick and he just smiles.

* * *

><p>The trick Charles has used isn't perfect, the moment a car goes past with a coughing roar that makes them jump it shatters and Charles has to piece it back together. But it calms the constant fear that he doesn't even bother noticing now, and keeps them both calm, but isn't so oppressive that it would keep them from noticing danger. It's a good feeling, and Charles is looking much brighter already, relieved that his abilities could help them.<p>

_Are you forgetting this?_ Erik taps the side of his head, _Because I'm not doing it_. Charles smiles, the expression coming much easier and causing Erik's heart to jump. Their hands brush as they reach the marketplace.

The market is nothing _but_ noise, and Charles simply cannot maintain the shield he made, it's constantly breaking under the onslaught of a thousand voices, the crunch of wheels, the screaming of chickens in their baskets. _I'm sorry *stupiduselesscan'teven-*_

- if they'd been alone Erik would have kissed him to make the string of self-loathing stop. _You are none of those things_. _I'm the one being scared by goats_. He glares at the offending animal, which tries to eat his sleeve.

He can feel himself curling up under the weight of memories, forcing himself forwards away from them, and feel Charles' new confidence vanish them both go back to their old places of pressed up against each other.

_I'll get better at this, I promise_. _We'll never be scared of going out again_.

_It would be nice_. His spine is sore from the constant tension in his body by the time they reach the fruit seller and buy the basket of oranges, limes and peaches Nurse Gunther wanted. Charles hesitates over a small pot of strawberries.

_Go on_.

_It's not my money_.

_It isn't as though they're expensive, and I'm making them a radio._

Charles hesitates, them smiles and buys the strawberries too. He sends Erik an image of the two of them in their room, on the bed, which no clothes and strawberries and Erik hopes his blush will be put down to the morning's heat.

* * *

><p>It's a relief to head away from the noise and back into the shadows of the alleys. The bags are not too heavy - or perhaps the work in the hospital is making them stronger - and it's good to be out of the sun. The roads seem almost deserted after the marketplace, with only a few old women standing in the doorways or on the balconies, and some of Tel Aviv's countless scrawny cats sunning themselves on the walls and pavement. It's easy to bring the shields back up and they both relax a little.<p>

Erik catches Charles' arm, almost making him drop the oranges. Across the road is a dusty brick building, it's doors open despite the heat of the day, and the word 'Library' written above the door in English, Hebrew and Arabic.

_You wanted books._ Erik's thoughts are a little hesitant, and a little impish.

Charles nods, "I'd like to go there. Later. When we have time."

Erik doesn't seem to want to continue their conversation, and they lapse into comfortable silence. Charles watches Erik think over what they could find in the library. maybe there would be a book on how he could get the motorcycle working. He has been able to clean it up, but there seems to be pieces missing. Maybe with a book he could find out what they were and find them - or make them: an image of metal twisting above his hands, the warm comfort of his- their-

_Powers? _Charles suggests, _Abilities? Skills?_ 'Curse' goes unmentioned and besides, it's becoming less applicable now.

Erik shakes his head. There is no word for what they can do, and if there was it would have to contain the wonder and the fear and the control and lack of it, the terror of what they'd seen in the camp hospital, and the comfort of hearing each other in their own heads. There's no word big enough. It would crumble with the effort.

* * *

><p>And time passes in a warm, sand coloured blur and it's good. The patients sleep like children the moment Charles walks into the wards now, the radio is finished although only Erik can get it to stay on any one station, and the motorcycle is taking shape. They wake every morning entangled in each other's arms and there is no better way, Erik is sure, of waking up. The food is simple but good, the work quiet and peaceful. Allens and Gunther leave them alone, and the other nurses pass through regularly, leaving them the four permanent staff members.<p>

Any spare time they have is usually spent in the back, where Erik slowly picks and cleans and reshapes the Ariel motorcycle into something which might just work. Charles reads to them both from books they borrow from the library, never aloud, but the words echo through both their heads. Books on long gone history and medical sciences Erik only barely pays attention to, and fiction sometimes. H.G. Wells is found, a dusty paperback behind some stacks, and one evening in October Charles finally finishes War of the Worlds, nearly four years since he started it. He closes the book with a snap, and Erik smiles, still bent over the Ariel, cleaning out the carburettor handlessly.

"Was it worth the wait?"

He can feel Charles smile, a tickle like bubbles in the back of his mind. "I don't know. Did you like it?"

He nods, it's a distraction, and an absurd one at that. When Charles was reading, he can focus on the motorcycle and the sun beating down on the shields in their minds, it's so easy to just freeze the moment and let it stretch on forever, endlessly reflected, until the past is drowned out by sunlight on sand and metal. There is nothing beyond this moment, and Erik does not want there to be.

Charles puts the books down and slides closer, putting an arm around Erik's shoulders. "You've got oil in your hair."

Erik's fringe is long enough to start getting in his eyes now, he's been brushing it back impatiently all day. _Haircut_. He sends with a smirk.

_Never. I'll wash the oil off myself_. An image of the two of them in the spare tub they have upstairs.

Erik sends back a unshaped thought, the gist of it being that Charles cannot win every argument with sex.

_The only way I ever win arguments with you_. Charles kisses the back of his neck.

Erik relaxes, and Charles runs the knuckles of one hand down his spine. His back has been bothering him less now. He's spent so much time lifting patients, groceries and the Ariel that perhaps his muscles have finally gotten used to it.

It's getting dark, although neither of them are tired. It's such a _good _feeling, not feeling tired all the time. The evening looks like it will be a pleasant one. _Can I tear you away from your debauchery to go for a walk first?_

"Say that in English." Charles gets up and hold out his hand to help Erik up.

Erik snorts, wiping his grubby hands on an old rag. His spoken English is stammered and still uncertain, although he's fluent in his own head. He lets Charles pull him to his feet. Another few days and they'd be able to _drive_ out of a evening. They could go out of the city and along the coast, where they'd meet no one and spend an evening completely alone.

"I'm looking forward to that." Charles puts a hand to his head. _It would be nice to have some peace_. Although the patients are no longer a problem, when they go out Charles still needs to touch Erik to drown out the outside world before it overwhelms him.

Luckily, at this time the streets are quiet. They've gotten into the habit of going out around this time, when Allens and Gunther are doing their evening rounds and don't need their help. It's still warm, it's dark, and it's quiet. A way of exploring the city without testing Charles' still fragile shields.

"The seafront?" Charles suggests. An image of a moonlit night over the sea, and the two of them on the beach.

_Romantic._ Erik smiles, not trusting his tongue with the syllables.

More images, a jumble of them. Candlelit dinners, roses, bad poetry. Erik's laugh is as rusty as the carburettor he was cleaning.

* * *

><p>The beach<em> is<em> thoroughly romantic, even Erik had to admit it as they walk along the boulevard. It's almost a full moon, larger than Charles has ever seen it, and so bright it almost drowns out the stars. The sea reflects silver, only small waves in the still evening, and they walk along in silence, hand in hand, heads full of the warm burr of each other, and the sounds of the sea. Late as it is, there's hardly anyone around.

They walk a little further than they're used to, leaving the walkway and going down to the beach, their shoes scuffing sand as they walk. There are a few cheap bars at this end of the beach, their lights shining grimy gold in the near-darkness.

"Do you want to go in?"

Charles grimaces at the thought. If only out of some last gasp of upper-class pride he'd thought died long ago. "We don't have any money." Allens has been considering paying them, but the last check has been delayed, and they're are penniless as ever.

"You could make them buy you drinks." It's more of a tease than a suggestion.

"I'd hate to think what they'd serve there."

Erik shrugs. He's about to turn around when a sort of madness suddenly hits Charles. He doesn't want to go in because there will be _people_, there will be _noise_, and he is so _sick _of being scared all the time. It's just a bar, and even if they don't buy anything, Charles refuses to be afraid of a _bar_ of all things. "Oh, damn it. Come on." He tugs at Erik's sleeve.

Erik grins, and Charles gets a flash that if anyone bothered them, Erik would pull out all the nails holding the bar together and the shack would fall in. Charles grins back.

* * *

><p>The bar is dark and dusty, but not as sordid as Charles obviously thought. Most of the people here are around their age - which makes it even stranger. The only people of their age they know are the patients - and there's something approximating jazz being played by a man sitting on the floor, with a flute. At least Erik thinks he's sitting on the floor, but a second look reveals the old British uniform, the scars, the wheeled board, the missing legs. He flinches away and mentally kicks himself, when it comes to war wounds this man's probably in a better state than they are.<p>

No one pays any notice to them, other than a quick glance to see who's come in. It's ridiculously pleasant not to stand out any more, to know that the marks of their shared past are no longer visible to all. They're still underfed and dressed poorly, but then the war's just finished and who isn't? They sit, not in a corner, because Charles seems to want to prove something to himself and Erik is happy to let him, but along the wall beside the bar, close to the flute-player.

Charles gives him a somewhat shy smile, and rubs the side of his face. "I would never have been allowed in places like this."

Erik glances around again, it is hardly classy, and more than a little noisy with the flute music and the loud talking of a lot of drunken young people, but it is quite pleasant. More than you would expect from the beach. "A bad influence?"

Charles twists a little in his chair, comfortable while being uncomfortable, but he's enjoying this and that's the important part. _Not the places I am used to_. Flashes of bars, mostly those in Oxford, all smoke and polished wood.

_You will have to take me there someday_.

"Maybe I will." They've shifted together until their shoulders are rubbing. They're not really talking. Just doing something to fill the time here. _We might even have money for a drink then_. Slightly wistful, it's been a long walk.

Well, in that case... Erik hesitates, then smiles, and a few coins slide along the floor into his hand.

Charles hasn't even begun to frown before he sends. _Just off the floor. People always drop things_. Allens found his stethoscope in the potato bucket after three days of looking. No one knows how it got there.

* * *

><p>There's enough for two glasses of lemonade, and they drink, mentally talking about nothing in particular when the soldier finishes his rather odd jazz rendition and offer his hat for coins. Charles reaches a hand over the little change they got back, sending a mental '?' to Erik for confirmation. Erik shrugs. <em>It's not enough to buy anything anyway<em>.

He turns to drop the coins in the man's hat, trying not to wince at picking up _notmuchohwell-betterthanbeinghome-_ a glimmer of a farm never to be seen again. Charles slides a hand under the table to take Erik's and the echoes stop.

Even Erik's thoughts can't drown out the snickers of the people around them. He still can't understand most of it, but the mockery in their voices is obvious.

He is British, one of the occupying forces. He is the symbol of everything standing between them and homeland/holyland/freedom/justice/safety. He is crippled. He is weak. They are strong. Their voices roar in his head and it's everything Charles can do not to make them _stop_ like he had the patients.

He doubles over, head on the table, hands at his temples to stop his head splitting. Erik's hand tightens and he puts an arm around Charles, and even _that_ can't stop the noise.

The crowd - _he can't even pick out individuals, it's just The Crowd_ - snicker and jeer in languages Charles still can't understand, and toss coins around the old soldier, making him crawl on the floor to reach them. There's a juddering spike of pain that brings tears to his eyes, and it's from the soldier - _pleasepleasepleasedon'tlaughpleasedon't_.

Erik has had enough and it trying to get Charles to his feet, wanting to get them out. His mind is an island of quiet in the malicious din, images of the night-dark sea, the sand, the moon, the two of them alone on the beach far from this place.

Charles pushes him off, shaking his head, trying to clear it from the _noise_, trying to breathe. A fat man pushes past him, stinking of whiskey and empties a glass of beer over the soldier's head. That brief touch is enough to push a hoard of vile thoughts into Charles's head, and he staggers again, blinded with the man's eagerness to _hurt_ and images of a dark corner far from anywhere, and the _stupidweakcripple_, and then boots, good hard working boots with steel tips to teach him a lesson.

Charles wants to run, to run and hide and probably be sick at some point. He does none of these things because something inside him Charles didn't even know was there just _snaps _and the world is suddenly encased in ice, cold and clear and still.

The heavy brute is still standing above the soldier, holding his empty glass of beer, the soldier is still on the floor, soaked through and trying to hold back tears of frustration and anger, The Crowd are still around them, laughing. Erik is still at his shoulder, reaching to pull him away before the mob turns on them. There's no sound but a dull roar in his ears and the thoughts have finally been tuned out to static.

He takes two steps towards the big man, who turns to face him, face already twisting up in a sneer _whatyougonnadobaldfreak_, and Erik is starting to move behind him, whether to drag Charles away or attack the man not even Erik knows. The Crowd is laughing, laughing because the man tops even him by two inches and outweighs him ten times over. Charles just reaches out a hand, not even sure what he's doing himself, and grabs hold of the man's hand, the hand holding the mug.

And instead of the man's revolting thoughts pouring into him, they pour _out_ instead. All the soldier's pain, all The Crowd's mockery, all the man's lust for violence for no other reason than he's strong and they're weak. It pours out of him in a flood, and Charles blinks, suddenly feeling empty, as though surfacing from far underwater.

The man goes down and doesn't move. Charles doesn't feel anything from him now, just a burnt empty whiteness. The soldier scoots back from the still bulk, his horror red hot knives in Charles' raw mind. The Crowd are staring at him, disbelief a mottled sheet hanging between them. The bartender, who hadn't said a word or made a move to stop the exchange, has dropped his glass. It shatters on the wooden boards.

* * *

><p>Erik is no mind reader like Charles, but he can read violence when he sees it. The brute is out cold - or whatever Charles did to him - and he can see several well-built men starting to advance on them, probably friends of said brute. Erik grabs Charles, who seems too shell-shocked to move, and drags him towards the door, throwing out his mind as he does so.<p>

It's not particularly focused on anything, but it's enough to throw the scattered coins in the faces of their aggressors and drag down a fair chunk of the roof as the nails are ripped out and everyone is showered with pits of wood and tar paper.

It's a distraction, and they run. Charles stumbles, then seems to come to himself and races out, their shoes kicking up sand as they race. The world's blur and Erik doesn't think he's ever moved this fast, then crash up to the road overlooking the beach and down the streets into the town going anywhere but here. They could have outrun their pursuers long ago or they could be just behind them or they could be being chased by guards and Charles's dogs for all they know-

They are finally forced to stop when they race down a blind alley and plough into a dead end. Erik's shoulder hits the brick and he spins around, breath screaming in his lungs. The moonlit street sways dangerously under his feet and black dots blink in front of his eyes. He slides to the ground and Charles collapsed beside him, both gasping and panting and almost sobbing from shock. They are completely alone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Present Perfect**

Chapter 3

Charles is shaking so hard his bones hurt, every breath is a near sob through chattering teeth. Erik is little better and his hands are twitching constantly when he reaches for Charles and drags him closer until Charles' face is crushed against his collarbone and Erik's harsh breaths are ghosting over his scalp.

Charles closes his eyes, trying to steady his breathing. The world is an incoherent whirl of colours and noise, voices and thoughts blur in and out of focus like a badly tuned radio. He knots his fingers into Erik's shirt and focuses on his friend; the worn smooth cotton of his shirt, the hard edges of his body underneath. The warmth of his hands where he clutches at Charles' shoulders, the grip unbreakable and almost painful. The warm metal smell of his clothes, mixed with the cigarette smoke from the bar. The knee digging into Charles' side. The scuttering of his thoughts as they too race around madly before closing on Charles and starting to calm. He touches them. Slow. Breathe. Stop.

The din ebbs away and Charles' head feels as though someone's scrubbed it out with lye soap. Everything's raw and sharp and clear. Erik's deathgrip relaxes a little, and Charles tucks his head up under his chin. A hand comes up to cradle his neck. Erik's thoughts begin to settle like oil in water, separating and calming and becoming distinct. They are alone. No one is after them. Whether they lost them in the alleys or because their little display dissuaded them from following, Charles doesn't know. He will never go near that place again.

"What did you _do_?" It's in ragged German, something Erik only uses when he's not thinking. The words scrape like sandpaper.

Charles takes a few more deep breaths. _I don't know_ would be unhelpful and a lie, and he doesn't think there's a vocabulary for this. Instead he pulls out the memory, trying not to flinch as it echoes through his raw brain. The Crowd, the drunkard, the soldier, the noise pouring out of Charles. The white burnt thing that had been all that was left of the man's mind.

Erik exhales, as though surfacing, draws back a little, hand rubbing over Charles' shoulder. Nothing is said, mentally or out loud, Erik's thoughts are quiet, and Charles doesn't want to pry. Erik stands up and pulls Charles with him, and it's only now starting to register that they're in a dead end street which stinks of piss and rubbish.

"Do you think you can maintain those shields until we get back?" Erik murmurs in English.

Charles tries, but the mirrors all shatter in his grasp and what little he has trembles in his mind as though exhausted. He shakes his head.

Erik shrugs, a hopeless smile. "Oh well." He keeps an arm around Charles' shoulders as they inch back to the mouth of the alley and look around. The streets around them are deserted, and they have no idea where they are.

Charles' hand wraps around Erik's waist. Tiredness hits him like a lead weight and he can barely keep himself upright. They need to get home and Charles has no idea where that is right now. Maybe they ought to find somewhere clean and quiet to sleep in until morning. It's warm, and he's had worse, he can cope with anything as long as Erik's there.

Erik tugs him along. "Come on." He frowns at the deserted street. "The sea's back there -" He points to the right, Charles can feel his mind putting down markers to judge distance, he snuggles closer and closes his eyes. "Stay awake, we should probably go this way." Another tug. "Do you want to sleep here?"

"How do you know?" Charles scrubs at his eyes. All the streets look the same to him.

Erik pauses. "I do. Call it a good sense of direction."

It's not, Charles can't really make out what it is, but he can feel it now, a north-south pull like magnet poles. Their abilities are doing strange things tonight. He lets Erik lead him, already falling asleep, resting on his friend's shoulder as the snow falls and the trees stretch branches overhead-

"Charles!"

Charles starts, wondering why it's suddenly so warm and why there's sand under his feet and not snow-

Erik's breathing hard. "Please," he's almost begging. "Please, can we just get _home_?"

Charles grips his head. _Just stop. Please just stop_. _Anything, just stop_.

* * *

><p>Erik's learnt enough of the city to know that heading north will have them hit a main road which they can follow to the market square, and then back to the hospital. Charles' trying to push everything out of his head, even Erik, but he's so tired he can't hold it up for long and it's like listening to a radio wandering between stations. And volume. Until Erik just wants to clamp his hands over his ears and make it stop.<p>

The main road is mostly empty, but cars sometimes still pass through and their minds break over Charles' head like waves, a brief flash of _latesoverylateuptomorrowatsix_ and before the cars are gone into the once again quiet night.

_Please. _He thinks at Charles. _I don't care if you put the whole city to sleep. Just stop_.

"Believe me, I'd love to." Charles stops, rubbing his face and swaying on his feet.

Erik walks back until they're facing each other, Charles sighs and leans in, resting against Erik's chest. The echoes in his head fade a little, but not by much. He feels Charles try to concentrate, gathering his thoughts like trying to focus a signal, but he's too tired and his mind too scattered by whatever he did in the bar.

It's better when they're away from the main streets, the narrow corners where the hospital is tucked away are almost completely silent, all the houses' inhabitants having gone to sleep. Charles picks up the occasional loud dream, but it's hazy and out of focus, like all dreams are, and he can pull away.

They don't try the front door, the night nurses should be up but they'd want an explanation and neither of them are up to dealing with the waking at the moment. Instead they creep around the back to the fenced-off yard they'd left what feels like years ago. Erik kneels down beside the fence and runs a hand over the rough wood. The nail in it is like a loose tooth, and he pulls at it until it shoots into his hand and he can swing the board out and squeeze through.

The yard is a welcoming presence, the sense of metal everywhere a rush of warmth over his rattled nerves. It's become so familiar, the steel and chrome of the motorcycle, the iron nails in the fence and storehouse, the tools, even the doorhandle. He tries the last, it's locked, but a moment later it clicks open as though ashamed of trying to keep them out. He can feel Charles trying to lose himself in his mind, trying to keep away from the sleeping minds of the patients upstairs.

* * *

><p>It's not as bad as Charles feared. In fact, walking upstairs past the wards feels like what Erik felt when they entered the yard. Everything here is safe, a known quantity. Something they've made their own. Everything is quiet, and they slip past without anyone noticing, finally, finally, <em>finally<em> reaching the attic room with its cramped two beds and one window always open to let the cool air in.

Charles doesn't even wait to take his shoes off, he collapses on the bed and buries his head into the pillows, eyes screwed shut. They're far enough away that there's nothing for his mind to pick up, just his and Erik's thought piling up on them over and over.

Erik sits next to him and gently runs his nails over Charles' bare head, over the nape of his neck and down his back. He's make a conscious effort to think only of soothing things, and there's an amusing flash of kittens and sunshine before Erik's mind focuses on the sea they'd walked beside earlier, and there's nothing but the sound of waves on the shore and moonlight glimmering on the waves. The hammering in Charles' skull fades a little.

_Thank you_.

Erik pulls his own shoes off and lies down beside Charles, on hand still on the small of his back.

_Do you want to get undressed?_ He sends rather than speaks because speech is unbearable right now.

_Please._ Charles tries to sit up but his body's had enough and his head spins. Erik helps pull him up and starts undoing his shirt. _I'm sorry. I thought we were past this._

It's a mark of how deeply he's dug into Erik's mind that his friend hears both thoughts and nods to both. That Charles' powers can be a crippling as starvation had been is _painful/frightening/horrible_ a word that somehow encompassed all of those. Charles envies Erik his more benevolent gift.

Erik must have seen that too because the next image Charles gets is of Erik unable to get up because of all the metal stuck to him. Charles gives a surprised laugh, the sound reverberating through both their heads like a dropped stone in an echo chamber, rising in din to deafening. He shakes his head to clear it.

_But that's never happened to you_, he points out instead.

Another image, involuntary, a flash of standing by a pit to the shattering of gunshots, and bullets hitting everyone except him. The image is yanked away violently, a hot angry refusal to feel guilty to the whisper of _you could have saved them too_.

Charles stops Erik from pulling his shirt off and hugs him instead. Bare chest against his still clothed body. Erik closes his eyes and relaxes almost by instinct. They are alone, and Charles is holding him. By default, nothing bad can happen. The sharp jagged edges of anger and guilt smooth away and everything is rounded and good.

Charles kisses the side of his cheek, just under his ear. _Help me with my shoes?_

Erik smiles, but restrains his snort to a mental one. Charles is quickly stripped of both his shoes and trousers, and Erik turns to himself. _Do you want anything? Water?_

Charles lies back and closes his eyes, the sheets are cool against his skin. _Please_.

The bed shifts, a padding of bare feet to where they keep the water jug, pouring and glass pressed against his hands. The water is cool and fresh from the night air - odd that a place that was so hot during the day could be so much colder at night - and the pounding lessens a little more. Erik lies back down, presses against Charles' back, he's quite naked and Charles manages a smile. They blankets and sheets are pulls over them, and it's pleasantly warm in their little cocoon of soft and smooth and skin. Charles settles down, his mind absently going down the mental checklist of _warm, safe, nothungry, Erik_ before slowly shutting down for the night.

He's almost asleep when it occurs to him he might have killed that man tonight.

* * *

><p>Erik is awoken by a hammering on the door like machine gun fire. He thinks it is machine gun fire at first, leaping out of bed with a start and falling to the floor.<p>

"Are you awake in there? It's past ten!" It's one of the night nurses.

The jarring shock of just for a moment thinking he was _back there_ is overwhelmed by another, far more immediate terror. _If she opens the door-_

"I'm coming in if you-"

Erik scrambles back on elbows and knees until his back hits the metal frame of the spare bed, he climbs up on it like a spider and throws himself under the blankets.

The door rattles, and opens with a bang. He can't see the nurse's face, she's in shadow from the lighting coming through the hallway. "-Oh for - Get up both of you, you should have been downstairs two hours ago!" The door slams behind her.

Erik curls into a ball, and tries to draw in regular breaths. His hands are still shaking and any shields Charles might have put up between him and the past are long gone. He wants to uncurl and looks around and convince himself that they're _here_ not _there_ and no one's going to shoot them or take them away, but his bones feel as though they've locked into place.

Charles' feet pad almost silently across the two steps between the beds, and hands rub over his shoulders and back, a coil of warmth in his mind brushing away the barbed wire like spiderwebs until Erik finally relaxes with a low groan.

He opens his eyes and almost manages a smile, Charles is still stark naked. He sits up and pulls his friend in his arms. _If only could stay like this forever_-

_Yes, shhh, but we have to get up or she'll be back_.

Erik glares at the door, the work with the motorcycle has paid off because it's a matter of a thought for it to lock itself with a snap.

Charles pulls back a little, and brushes his thumb over Erik's lips. _She'll still be back_.

"I'm up." His body doesn't want to respond, he's going to have a violent bruise where he'd rammed into the bedframe, and his left arm is still stinging from where he'd banged it on the floor. He's still tired and they're both naked and all Erik wants is to go back to bed and forget the world outside their room even exists.

Charles pushes him gently, "You go first." His voice is slightly raw, and he doesn't look Erik in the eye.

Erik frowns, _we will talk_, but goes. Best they wash and get ready separately. The though sends a hot spike of rage through him, this is supposed to be their safe place. The world outside is full enough of danger, particularly after last night, but even here - even here-

He's been getting complacent. There is no safe place, or if there is then it's a deserted island no one knows of. There is no obvious danger in the hospital, with its now-quiet patients and staff who either ignore or are distantly polite to them, but if they slip, if they reveal their powers or their relationship to anyone, then they would have to run, or be turned on and torn to pieces.

And that would be the same everywhere they went. Erik washes his face and towels himself dry with rather more violence than usual. They were alone. If there were any other survivors of the Nazi test that gave them these powers, they were no doubt all dead. It was just him and Charles left, and if anyone found out, there wouldn't even be that.

And for the other, well, Erik supposed there had to be other people like them here, other - what was that word?

_Homosexual_ Charles supplies.

- But they were probably hiding like they were. The world of man was a violent, hostile place which would kill you the moment you stepped out of line, who could blame them.

_It's not that bad_. Charles is lying on his bed, eyes closed to improve the connection.

_Yes it is_. _And never try to prove it otherwise_. The very idea of Charles taking that risk was fuel for a thousand nightmares.

The ghost of a hand down the back of his neck. Erik turned, but no one there. _I'm sorry_, _I- it's hard to -_ There's a scrambled mess of thoughts Erik can't decipher, and Charles pulls away, leaving a cold space in the back of Erik's mind.

_I didn't mean- come back_.

* * *

><p>They missed breakfast, and it's a mark of how bad Charles' shields are today that the realisation makes him break out in a cold sweat and fight down panic. <em>Stop it<em>!

There's food of course, even if not in the kitchen he stashed a loaf of bread and two tins of potatoes in a dresser in their room. He hates that they're there, that he can't dig the terror of starvation out of his mind like a rotten tree, tear it up by the roots and bury it somewhere, far away. He tried to take them back once, soon after using the shields, but the thought of not having food just burnt straight through them and he'd left them where they were. The bread's probably utterly stale by now.

They eat and there's some mercy in the day at least, because they're both told to work in the wards today. Charles doesn't think he could manage going out, not after yesterday.

The wards are cool and quiet, and the low buzz of the patient's minds is soothing. There haven't been any other attacks, and there probably won't be. Charles can't articulate it, but they are about as much a threat to him as a mouse would be to a cat. he can make them stop now. Stop forever, now.

Erik puts a hand against his back, feeling the tension in his muscles. "Talk."

Not out loud. _The man, last night. I think I killed him_. There, done. Charles doesn't know which is worse, the horror that he killed someone with his mind alone, or that he _killed someone_ and isn't feeling worse about it.

Erik glances around to make sure there's no one paying attention, and puts his arms around Charles's waist from behind. _He would have probably tried to kill you for stopping him._ The thought is gentle. _He would have hurt you_.

_But-_

_He would have hurt me_.

Charles can't help but smile a little at that. _That's cheating_.

A kiss on the side of his neck. Erik doesn't send his next thought, but Charles picks up on them anyway, it something to the extent of _It's not like it's the first time anyway_.

_That's different._ There's a world of difference between the bloody fight for food and clothes and shelter in Auschwitz and what happened last night. Two different worlds.

_We were defending ourselves, it's the same_.

_We shouldn't even have been there, if I hadn't_-

Erik kisses him again. _Stop_. _You could say the same about anything. If you hadn't gone to Europe-_ There's a wistfulness there that makes Charles scowl.

_You'd be dead. _That puts a firm end to that tangent. _None of this changes the fact that even if the man isn't dead, he's no better than anyone here._ An image of the ward.

Again, nothing sent directly, but Charles gets the feeling Erik thinks at anyone who picks fights with helpless cripples and boys half his size deserves to be here more anyone else does. Besides, what can either of them do now? _Other than keep as far away from that beach as possible and avoid any police_.

Charles sighs, and lets it go. He just won't do it again. And as Erik put it, what can he do? Turn himself in? He can't even consider that.

_Besides, what did you really do anyway?_ Erik adds. _By what you told me, all you did was send everything he was projecting back at him. It was his fault in the end_.

It wasn't, Charles knows deep inside it doesn't. But is it worth mourning a man he knew was probably going to end up murdering an innocent? There are things to be done, and a lot of work today.

* * *

><p>Normally, they ought to separate. Charles on one floor and Erik on the other. But that's out of the question and anyway, if they work together they get things done twice as quickly.<p>

Erik lets Charles check the patients for bedsores while he washes the floor, or, he should be washing the floor. instead he watches as the patient falls silent almost the minute Charles touches them, silent and still and quite at peace. He can feel Charles' mind soothing theirs as he turns them like a loose-limbed doll, checking pressure points and turning them very lightly and, in the case of those self-injuring, ties them back down carefully.

After the third such performance, Erik stop washing the same square yard of tile and walks over. Charles looks up at him from where he's kneeling by the patient's bedside, _ That smile is trouble_. He thinks, then smiles a little when he realises Erik heard.

Erik cocks his head at the man in the bed. Like many here, he's in a coma, eyes open and staring at nothing. "Wake him up."

Charles' thought skitter and bang into each other. _I don't know how_ is overrun by _I can't_ and then both discarded because if Charles can kill someone he can surely undo the process. He looks down at the man in something approaching panic. _I could hurt him_.

"I can't see how he could possibly get worse."

"Maybe he doesn't want to wake up." Charles runs a hand over the man's forehead and Erik feels absurdly jealous.

"You could ask him." He points out. "And the other one, the one who attacked you, you said he didn't even know where he was, that he was still in the camps."

Charles' hands twitch. "I can't, not now."

"Why not now?" He's getting exasperated because he can feel Charles trying to look for an excuse and they're all feeble. "Don't bother with that one," He crosses his arms, "You know I wouldn't believe that."

"I can't control it like that!" Charles' voice is sharp and he quiets it at once, "Why do you care?"

Erik isn't sure how to begin answering that question and says nothing, finding an answer to that question is like trying to find the end of the world. It doesn't exist.

Charles sighs and rubs his face, "I mean, why care about that- this things I can do."

Erik frowns. "Because it's amazing." He takes another step forward until he's right in front of Charles. "And you're amazing." He kneels down until they're face to face. "And I want to see what you can do with it, when you're not so afraid." He takes Charles' hands, they're cold from being pressed to the tiles.

"You'd be afraid."

"And I hope you'd be there to push me if I was."

Charles glances back over to the man, they don't even know his name, and all Charles would need to do is close his eyes and go in and they would know. At least the man would have the dignity of being registered under his own name. He closes his eyes. "I could kill him."

"You know what you're doing. You know how to kill now. Just don't do that."

"There'll be questions. They'll want to know."

Erik hesitates. "I'm not saying we wake all of them, just one. They wouldn't think anything of it." _And if they did, you could make sure they'd never ask_.

Charles looks between the patient and Erik, a rather cornered look. Then nods, and Erik can feel part of him is alive at the challenge. This chance to learn how to use this ability, the idea that maybe one day he'll control it.

Erik smiles. He couldn't have put it better himself.


	4. Chapter 4

**Present Perfect  
><strong>

Part Four

_After this time will be moving faster, I have a lot to get through in the next few years. Each chapter will cover about a year, maybe more for years where a lot happens._

_ As for the comatose Holocaust survivors. Another case of I wish I made this up. Some have still not woken up. How's that for a horror story?_

Half an hour later Charles is shivering on their bed, having been ordered out when Erik had gone to report to Allens that one of the patients had woken up.

Charles looks down at his hands, every so often they jump of their own accord, he feels cold in the warm room, teeth sore from chattering.

He is completely drained, washed out and empty and run over. And good. So utterly, shockingly good.

Waking the man out of his nightmare had been like waking up from his own bad dream. Like opening eyes he didn't know he had, like... like...

Charles thinks he ought to start a new language as those he knows are simply unable to stand up to the challenge. His life is beyond his ability to describe. For the first time though, it's a good indescribable.

Erik is lying back on the bed, his happiness at their success a warm revolving presence in the back of Charles' mind, there and not, something he only need to reach out and take.

The man had woken sudden and screaming. Charles knew the shape of his name from his mind, stamped on every part of his brain, but had no idea how to say it. He had spoken to him in thoughts and emotions, and when the man had woken had been unable to understand a word he said.

"I told you. It was amazing." Erik smiles up at him, the light catching in his eyes and hair tangled on the coverlet.

Charles shrugs, reaching over to curl a lock of it around a finger and pulling _Don't gloat_. "Was it? What was there to see?" He'd sat beside the man and touched his temple very gently. Then he was in and nothing much would have happened outside.

Erik sits up, frowning in the slight, still smiling way he has when something's interesting him. "You were talking to him the entire time. Telling him to wake up, and then something about his family and that the war was over-"

Charles blinks, "I did that?" He'd something like that in the man's mind, he hadn't realised- thank god there was no one else in the ward.

"He was talking back. I didn't understand anything, but you did. Like half a conversation."

Charles leans back until he's lying across Erik's chest, head half off the bed. The man had screamed of the place around them, a camp like Auschwitz and not, with deliberate mistakes with dead trees holding up barbed wire and inmates with no faces. He'd been back there, and alone.

And he'd torn it to pieces, he'd ripped it down and the man had soon understood and joined in, and together they'd torn the camp to rubble and dust. The sheer raw joy of it fills him up until he wants to scream or laugh because it's _gone_. It doesn't matter if it was only in the man's head, every one of those places should not be and now there are one less thanks to Charles.

Erik pulls him up until they're pressed together, and Charles hears the door click locked. His head hits the pillow beside Erik's, and he turns to look at him.

He's beautiful. It's funny, but it really hasn't sunk in until now. It must have been a gradual change. Sharp face with all sharp angles counterbalanced by his brilliant smile and grey-blue eyes.

Erik must have heard him because he laughs softly and pulls Charles in for a kiss, pushing in a rough thought, a story he once read about a girl who found a muddy kitten only to see it grow into a magnificent pure-bred cat. Charles snorts at the comparison and scratches Erik behind the ear.

Charles was not planning to wake anyone else up just yet. He wanted to leave it a few weeks so the next one would seem natural, but it wasn't possible. Or no, it was possible, but not for Charles. In order to do it, he would have to be the kind of person who'd walk past a child dying of thirst while carrying a full pail of water, and Charles is pleased to say he neither is, nor knows any such people.

He can feel the cries even more now. Before, it was alright to block them out or silence them into temporary peace. It was all he could do, and a momentary calm was better than nothing.

Now, he stands at the threshold of hell, and he has the keys. How can he not use them? How can he?

"Charles." He hadn't noticed he'd already knelt down beside one patient. The woman with the bandaged hands.

Charles doesn't speak. He just opens his mind out and lets Erik hear the woman crying _curled up cold pain hunger i'm sorry i stole the bread it's not my fault i'd have died oh mother mother forgive me hunger hunger hunger_

Erik flinches and jerks away, shaking his head as though to drive out the thoughts. The shields blocking the past are crumbled to dust and Erik is raw and bare before the memories. Charles staggers to his feet and drags Erik into his arms, shutting out everything but the two of them as he tries to rebuild the shields. Erik doesn't move, just standing there with his head on Charles' shoulder.

_I'm sorry I didn't mean-_

_Please don't_. Anything not to remind him of the screams, the flashes of mud and cold and mixed up everywhere with Erik's own memories and _mother mother _his mother in the pit and the taste of dirt-

Charles tries to tear that apart too, but only makes Erik flinch. Everything is raw and there's nowhere for Charles to lay his thoughts that doesn't hurt. Instead he tried to think of nothing, just white on white and when that doesn't work he tries to think of the sky with clouds and endless. Erik lets out a breath neither of them knew he was holding, and his shoulders sag a little.

_I'm-_

_ No. Never. No reason. Never sorry not to me._

* * *

><p>There's nothing to be sorry for. This is what it would be <em>without <em>Charles. The only reason he can feel this good, can walk and speak and not flinch and climb the walls when a mouse squeaks or a door groans is because of the shields and the guard they stand in their dreams. Erik takes a deep breath and tries to get himself under control. The memories are still raw, waiting just outside the shields and Charles, behind Erik's eyes. Just waiting.

One breath. Two. Stand straight and rub his eyes. The outside world comes back into focus. The woman still groaning on the bed, gnawing mindlessly at her fingers in a hunger no food can sate.

"I'm sorry-"

Hearing it with his ears is even worse. _"No_." Deep breath. This was what Charles heard every day here. "But, you can't wake them." _If you wake them there will be suspicions. They will realise we can do something. We can't. Not unless we want to run the next day. Slowly, every few months. Maybe. But not all at once or they'll know and you can't help any more because we'll be dead-_

"Shh..." Charles is still holding him, still projecting blue skies and clouds into his mind. Erik answers with his projection from the other night, the cool sea reflecting the stars.

Charles hesitates, then sinks down, hands to his temples as he focuses. The ward goes silent. Everyone is fast asleep.

When they head down the stairs, they find the second ward just as still. Down again and they smell lunch burning where Nurse Gunther fell asleep at the stove.

Charles doesn't say anything, Erik can see the pride in his own eyes reflected endlessly in Charles' own.

Time passes, and winter comes. It's the sweetest winter Erik has ever had. It rains. Sometimes it's so warm they can stand outside and it's like a shower. There's no snow, the wind is never cutting. Together they could stay here and forget what being cold ever was. What being hungry every was. What pain was. It's still and quiet and sometimes Erik is scared to breath in case he breaks whatever this is and the hungry cold horrors he _knows_ are just waiting outside rush back in.

But Charles is determined to take risks, and Erik doesn't really want to stop him. After so long of being terrified of what he can do, having Charles starting to relax with his skills is worth it. Perhaps it will not be if they are caught, but so far, it's worth it.

Charles has woken two others already.

There's a half-hearted attempt at a Chanukah celebration, but Erik looks at the menorah and the memories of the last time he'd seen one in the ghetto hits so hard the shields don't hold. There'd been such a fight. In the entire street they'd only had enough candles to light one, and the argument to decide which family's would be used was fierce. They'd known they wouldn't see another year. Erik quietly gets up and leaves while nurse Gunther is lighting the first candle, her face a crumpled mask like a used paper bag.

No one says anything when they go, and sit on the stairs. Charles sitting as close as he dares here where anyone could see them. He doesn't speak, and projects an image of the four of them - him, Charles, Gunther and Allens - at the table around the menorah, picking out details Erik's hadn't seen, the tears in the old nurses eyes. The way Allens looked anywhere but the candle flame.

_We should all be in the beds upstairs_, he adds, a slight smile.

_Not you_. The only one without bad associations.

_I'm a liar and not Jewish_.

_I wonder if they've noticed_.

_You're the only one who sees me naked._

Erik manages a smile, the memories going back behind the shields. Charles soothes them and builds the walls up higher and brighter. Nothing but here.

"Would you forget it all if you could?" Charles murmurs, and runs his nails very lightly down Erik's neck.

It's tempting, but it's a question with only one answer. Forget the camps and he forgets everything before, his family, his childhood. The good as well as the bad. Even during, there were... not good, but fragments of the less bad. Meeting Charles, Charles telling him he was loved. It would be like having part of himself removed.

He doesn't need to say anything. Charles tugs at his hand. "Shall we?" He suggests, a smile. "A present for the season?"

"Waking someone else?" He can feels Charles' hunger for it, wanting the challenge, and the feeling of doing something. Of control, even when he still has trouble going out during the day for the noise.

Anything for him. To make him happy. There's precious little else.

"They'd be happy for the distraction." Charles smiles as they climb the stairs.

* * *

><p>Everyone in the ward is still asleep, although it's getting thin here and there. If he focuses, Charles can feel the echoes of their nightmares through the veil he's cast over them. He lets that guide him. The loudest, the most suffering in a room of overlapping horrors like the scales of a fish, each one different.<p>

He doesn't see the boy he kneels down beside, but he knows him, knows his name is Tomas from Italy and he was in the camp whose name sounds like it's spoken through a mouthful of earth and he's still there now, in a pit with walls of stone and he's falling, and Charles is falling with him.

He wrenches his head away from the piles of sharp stones coming to meet them and tries to grab hold of the boy, but it's like holding ice and the boy looks at him with eyes of _terrorfurypain_ and Charles has to struggle not to cry out, tumbling up behind the boy and grasping for him again.

_It's not real_. He hopes he isn't really shouting in the ward. _You're dreaming. Wake up_.

The boy looks at him again, and it's not simply fear but desperation. _They're waiting for me_. It's Italian but Charles can understand every language there is here. _I want to be there_.

He points down and Charles can see the smashed bodies on the rocks below. He makes a grab for the boys arm and turns his head away. The boy's been falling for months if not years, he won't hit the ground when Charles is there. A good thing, because if you can't die in dreams, you can get quite close. He pulls at the boy's arm. _You can't. They're dead. You'll fall forever._ _Come back._

_ I won't! Not back there!_

_ No, not back there, the war's over. You're in a hospital. In Palestine. It's Chanukah and-_ he can't do words properly, he projects an image of the hospital, for a moment it surrounds them like wallpaper hanging in the air, before the force of the boy's memories burns through them.

They might still be falling, or they might be hanging in place. The boy hesitates, no longer hanging head down but standing in the air, facing Charles. _Who are you?_

_ It doesn't matter._ None of them ever remember. He caught the woman looking at him oddly after he woke her, but she said nothing. She left soon afterwards, not saying where she was going. Many did, not wanting to stay in the same building with those still lost in their nightmares, as though afraid they would fall back and never wake up again.

The boy looks down and Charles pulls him, not up or down or any direction but _there_, a direction simply labelled Out. Through the layers of the mind and memories to the forefront of everything. The boy doesn't struggle, only staring back over his shoulder at the bodies of, Charles knows now, his brother and father. He leaves the boy within the walls of his own mind and pulls out all the way out, back into his own head.

Someone shakes him. Erik's mind is a mass of spiking panic and Charles jumps, the world coming into sudden focus. All the ward's lights are on, and everyone is here. Allens, Nurse Gunther, two of the other night nurses, and Erik's face a rigid mask and mind screaming. Allens has Charles by the shoulder, the feeling of being touched by someone he can't feel in his mind is so utterly _wrong_ and terrifying that he jerks away and accidentally elbows Tomas in the ribs.

The boy groans, and Allens turn to him, astonishment rolling off him. Charles scrambles back and Erik catches hold of his arm. The touch is as calming as anything can be and Charles wonders if they should just run and try and get a head start, or if he can maybe put everyone to sleep and make them forget this ever happened.

Gunther is helping the boy sit up and giving him a glass of water. Allens is just looking at him, then back at Charles. "Amazing."

There's no fear in his mind, no hostility. He's stunned, but not in the sense of seeing something completely unexplainable. "How long have you been doing this?"

Charles doesn't know what to say and Erik is within moments of attacking everyone with the bedsteads. It's a horrible frozen electric moment, everything in potential.

"You're the one who's been waking them up." Allens runs his fingers through his hair and takes a step towards them. Stopping when he sees them flinch. "It's alright. I just didn't realise- you must be some kind of natural. I heard of this sort of thing when I was in medical training, about some people in the last war. Could get soldiers back on their feet with a few words."

Charles stares. People like him? A wild, desperate hopes explodes inside him, he didn't even know it was there, wanting to know they weren't alone, Erik and him, that they weren't just the result of some twisted Nazi experiment.

"Mind you, they'd had training. But, didn't Shomron say you'd studied medicine? is that where you learnt how to do it?"

_What_? There's no choice. Charles sifts carefully into Allens' mind. The images are front and forwards and very clear, doctors talking to shell-shocked men and getting them back to fighting strength. It's at once a disappointment and an overwhelming relief. Allens doesn't know. He thinks Charles is some kind of natural mind-doctor.

"Yes," He manages. "It was there. In Havard."

"Havard?" Allens frowns deeply, looking from Charles to Erik and back again. Then, loud as if he'd spoken out loud_ If he keeps waking them up I don't care what secrets they've got_. And a smile. "Well, you'd better rest. It sounded like you'd had a fascinating conversation, I wish I knew as many languages as you do."

* * *

><p>Charles isn't actually sick, but it's close. They sit on the cold bathroom floor with the door firmly locked, trying to calm down. "I'm sorry, they came in just after you started and I didn't know how to wake you."<p>

"You can't." Charles' voice is a croak, he swallows. "It would be too dangerous. I don't know what would happen if I'm in their mind like that. We might both be lost." He rubs his face.

Erik drops his head in his hands at the shudder of emotion that brings, like having a thunderstorm inside him, lessening terror and panic from earlier mixed with the renewed fear of what Charles had just said.

A hand touches his shoulder, "It's always safe. I can't be disturbed, but as long as I'm not it's fine."

He remembers Allens shaking Charles' shoulder. If that had been a minute earlier-

"Yes. But it wasn't." How can Charles be this calm? He wishes he'd never suggested this. He wishes he'd known it could be this dangerous-

"It's not. It's-" Charles sighs, Erik can almost hear him change tactics. "If you had an accident on the motorcycle, you could be badly hurt."

The motorcycle was finished a week ago, if the rain stops they'll be able to take it out. _I wouldn't_. He sends what it feels like to push his powers into the metal, feel it move and purr around him. Safe.

_You could_. An accident with a car, Erik falling.

_No_. The car spinning away, the motorcycle remaining upright.

_Then you see, it's like that. Nothing bad can happen. And even if it did, I'm sure I can find my way back._

It's all academic anyway, Charles couldn't stop doing it even if he wanted to, Allens will be expecting it. Charles, he unbearable fool, is actually happy about this. Happy to be able to risk his life more often.

_Just make sure I'm not disturbed, and nothing will happen_.

He will. If he has to pin Allens and Gunther and the rest up with cutlery he will, or impale them with bedposts, or... anything. _Anything_.

"It's fine." Charles scoots forward and hugs him, it's become so familiar and safe that Erik relaxes without meaning to. "It's better than fine. Didn't you see? Because none of them know how we can do what we can do, and they keep making up reasons for it. They won't know unless we make it too obvious."

_Still not safe._

_Better than nothing_. Charles insists stubbornly.

* * *

><p>Charles wakes up first that morning. The ever present rain is still pattering outside, on the tree outside their window, on the closed shutters, on the tiles above their heads. Charles opens his eyes and looks up at the grey ceiling. Under Allens' astonished supervision, he's woken another patient, and the doctor has hinted that when he leaves, he'll have enough money to start paying him proper wages. And Erik, he adds as an afterthought. <em>Someone like him is worth their weight in gold<em>, and he's been feeling guilty about using them essentially as slave labour. _Worth putting up with his sour brother if it means the patients will be healing that much faster._ A flash of Charles and Erik, seen through Allens' eyes, nervous and constantly defensive, as damaged as the people in the beds. _Physician, heal thyself._

The new year's come and gone, and it's 1946 now. Almost a year. Entirely a year if he's counting from leaving Auschwitz. Normally a time of reflection but Charles can't think back properly, and not simply because of the shields. Everything comes in fits and starts like a failing lightbulb. He closes his eyes. Better not to remember. The only worthwhile thing to come out of that disaster is currently in bed with him.

Erik is curled up towards Charles, still asleep. His mind is the warm darkness born of no longer having dreams. It again strikes Charles just how beautiful he is. The hard bones filled out to a wiry frame made muscular from lifting patients and motorcycle parts, his face sharp and softer than usual, relaxed in sleep, colourlessly grey lashes half invisible on skin tanned even in winter, one lock of grey hair falling over his cheek. It's shoulder-length now. Charles brushes his fingers over his ribcage, side, hip. He _wants_ him. Not simply because he's Erik, and the very idea of sleep with anyone else is impossible, but because he's stunning and would be wanted by anyone.

Erik opens his eyes and smiles. There's a sleepy stretch in Charles' mind as Erik makes room for himself, amused at waking to Charles so eager and hungry. His hands start coming up as Charles closes those last few inches and their mouths press together.

_You're beautiful too, you know_. An image of himself through Erik's mind, sun-kissed and smiling a brilliant, dazzling smile Charles didn't even know he owned, eyes shining and so utterly desirable and loved.

_Thank you, and stay still. It's your turn to be appreciated_.

He hears the door lock, and pauses in the kiss, sending his mind down through the floors to where Allens and Gunther are sleeping, and presses in to make sure they won't wake up for a while yet, and again for the night nurses, making sure none of them are about to go up and bother them.

Erik is grinning. "I told you," His voice is thick with sleep, "You are amazing." The last is hissed as Charles presses his lips against his neck and sucks.

He tries a few different places before he finds the spot that makes Erik whine and arch half off the bed. Charles climbs on top of him to hold him still, hot and precious and alive against him, and continues his exploration, taking his time to learn the new contours by touch. The collarbones jutting out like handlebars, the hollow in the throat just above them, the strong curve of Erik's shoulders, all fitting in his hands as though they'd been built as one and later broken apart.

Erik's image, of himself with the skin missing from his ribs and Charles inside the cage of bones. Erik wrapping his arms his chest and keeping the two of them safe. His fingers skate over Charles' chest.

_Mine, of me part of me never leave me_.

A trail of kisses down his chest, a pause to lick around pectorals and nipples that has Erik arching again despite Charles' weight and a jolt of sensation so intense it's almost pain and _Charles stop!_

He can feel the heat of his chuckle against the over-sensitive skin and continues to move down. He's never done this before, but Erik's gotten the idea and his hands run over Charles' bare scalp. _So this is all right?_ Charles sends, holding back so that his breath is just ghosting over Erik's cock, standing painfully hard from the nest of silver hair.

What Erik sends then as completely incoherent and his growl, done while biting down on his arm from control. His arousal is like a white-hot wire in Charles' mind, and when they touch it sends showers of sparks through both of them.

_To think, _he sends back, lowing his head further to lick, _We are the only people in the world who can feel each other like this_.

What Charles can decipher from Erik's answer is that they deserve _something_ don't they? Which shatters into fragments and Charles hears the bedstead creak warningly when he takes Erik's cock into his mouth.

How do you do this? It's not easy to think with his own erection grinding into Erik's leg and Erik's mind going off in fireworks. In the end he doesn't try and experiment. Judging by Erik's reaction he's enjoying this perfectly well.

_Yes. Definitely_.

Deciding that if Erik could think coherently he was doing something wrong, Charles works his cock in his mouth as far as he could, and sucks. Erik cries out something garbled that makes Charles glad he'd made everyone in the hospital ignore them, and his nails dig into Charles' head. Charles starts and must have bitten slightly because the rush of _pleasure-pain_ in his head makes everything go white for a moment, and Erik yelps and, to Charles' surprise, starts to laugh.

_What?_

The response is a mixed exasperation and love and please dear god more.

Charles hums, and that goes well, his fingers stroke over Erik's sides and hips, down his thighs. He is close, and Erik is close, and if Charles isn't careful he'll lose control as well, just from being pressed against Erik's calf. He shifts and Erik literally whines. His knuckles are knotted white in the sheets, and his head is thrashing back and forth. One of the pillows fall off the bed.

He hums again and Erik throws back his head and comes hot and bitter. It's not at all pleasant but Charles is too gone to notice because the starburst in his head in enough to bring him over too, grinding in the sheets as everything goes wonderfully white and he hears something crash nearby.

Charles doesn't open his eyes. He brings his arm up and wipes his mouth of in, getting rid of the unpleasant taste.

_Should I be insulted?_

Charles drags himself up Erik's sweat damp body and kisses him. _What do you think?_

_ Quite right, how you suffer._

_Erik, what did you break_? He still doesn't dare open his eyes to see.

Erik does though, and Charles is still far enough inside his mind to use his eyes and see how the doorknob had flown off the door so hard it's fractured a windowpane.

_Ah._ Charles isn't sure how they can explain this. It's not broken though, just cracked, maybe nobody will notice. It looks like he's not the only one who has to learn control.

There's a rather rueful though that no else has to deal with this sort of thing either.

_I wouldn't change it for anything_. For the first time, Charles means it completely and fervently.


	5. Chapter 5

_Sorry for the wait. I have in fact been taking an MA in Holocaust Studies, and am still recovering. NONE OF THESE STORIES HAVE BEEN ABANDONED. I hope to have a new Diaspora chapter done soon, and the final chapter of Of Needles is already half done. Apologies and hope you enjoy the fic!_

_(ps, for those wanting to know what the motorcycle looks like: http: /www. vintagebike. co. uk/ pictures/ 1930-ariel-model-f/)_

**Present Perfect**

Part Five

Erik would have liked to pull the mouth of the petrol tank wider, the flimsy can wobbled and splashed petrol down the sides of the motorcycle. Charles leant on to handlebars, keeping it upright, and Allens watching, meaning that Erik didn't dare use anything but his hands to fill the tank.

Finally. Erik recapped the can, and then the tank. They'd wheeled the Ariel through the ground floor to the entrance, and got it out into the road. Allens leans on the banister, watching curiously, holding an old Weiss camera he picked up from a flea market.

"Do you mind if I-" He lifts the camera.

Erik shrugs and shakes his head. He can feel how much Charles likes the idea, a reassurance that everything here is real, isn't about to be ripped away - look, they have photographs to prove it!

Erik smiles and swings a leg over the motorcycle. The leather is cracked and ragged, and there's not much either of them can do to fix that. There's a second saddle on the rear wheel, and Charles gets on behind him. He puts a hand on Erik's shoulder to steady himself.

It's odd, sitting like this the Ariel feels more like a living animal, living metal. He sinks his mind into the works, the bolts and gears and the heavy dead area in the tank- he won't even need the petrol, just a push _here_ with his mind and the pistons will grind and the wheels will turn.

He doesn't need his powers to feel Charles' heart beating where he's leaning against him, eager to be off. They won't have to depend on their legs any more to escape, they have a machine to do it for them. If everything goes wrong, they can climb on and just _go_, where to isn't an issue, as long as they can escape the _from_ as quickly as possible.

On the side away from Allens, Erik reaches a hand and touches Charles' thigh. _Yes_.

"Smile." Snap, click, whirr. "I'll get you both a copy. When can we expect you back!"

"The evening?" Charles suggests. It's their day off after all, and they've got something for lunch packed.

And maybe it's the fact they've got food that makes Erik turn and look over the street towards the east. They don't have to come back, if they don't want to. They've got food, and between what both of them can do Erik's reasonably certain they can find more. They don't need petrol, they could just keep going through the desert to- anywhere. To India, or China, and then they could cross the sea to America and-

And then they'd have to stop- _Charles_ - because if they went any further, they'd start coming back on themselves and reach Europe. He never wanted to go to Europe again.

Erik smiles. It doesn't matter. This time, they'll come back. This time, maybe not next time, and they'd come back not because they had to but because they wanted to. The freedom lifts a heavy weight from his shoulders. The Ariel feels so light it could almost fly.

* * *

><p>Charles found the place from the mind of one of the night nurses. It might be nostalgia from the place she grew up, but it looked wonderful to Charles, and he'd thought it worth trying.<p>

The machine vibrates under them like a living thing. With Erik's mind in it, it almost is. Charles wonders if Erik can feel his weight on it.

Then there's a jolt and Charles throws his arms around Erik's waist as they wobble off. The wheels kick up dust and he's vaguely aware of Allens waving them off.

It's bumpy and Charles grits his teeth at every wrench, terrified he'd going to be thrown off. They swing around into the street and now there's carts and cars to contend with. Charles closes his eyes and buries his head in Erik's jacket.

_It's fine_. Amused. He can feel the cars and the nails in the carts, it's fine. _Are you going to tell me where to go?_

_I told you. Please concentrate on the road._

_ Shh, look_.

Charles cracks his eyes open. The brickwork of the houses is passing at terrifying speed and he shuts them again quickly. Instead, he peeks out through Erik's, careful not to jostle any thoughts. Erik smiles. A car comes rushing towards them and he doesn't even blink, just a pull to the side and they're passing, the whiplash blowing Erik's hair out of his face. They might as well be toy cars for all the danger they're in.

Charles pulls out, and opens his eyes again. They're just passing along the seafront now. The pavements are full, no one looks at them. Why would anyone look at them? Charles hugs Erik and smiles, and Erik opens the throttle, the motorcycle roars and they speed on faster, wind lashing their faces and throats.

They're out of the city in little time, and Erik doesn't even bother with the controls anymore, he pushes his mind into the gears and bolts and tell them to turn and pull and move _just so_. He made them, they obey.

The machine jumps forward like a startled horse and Charles hangs on with all his strength as they blast down the dirt side road out of Tel Aviv. The countryside is shockingly green after the dusty sand of the city, olive groves and thick grass and no one on this neglected road to the coast.

Exhilaration spikes and Erik orders _faster!_ Faster than the Ariel should have been able to stand but that's fine because the cogs don't stick or wear down with Erik and Charles is frightened for a moment he's going to be pulled off, but then Erik pulls him closer by his belt and it's _good_.

They pass a farmer and his cart coming the other way, and Charles has just time to catch a shocked _What-_ from him before they're past and roaring away in a cloud of dust. He couldn't have stopped them if he tried. Charles starts to laugh and gets a mouthful of gritty air for his troubles. He hugs Erik instead, caught up in wild joy of sheer speed.

Then Erik lets go of the handlebars like a schoolboy on a bicycle, and crosses his arms over his chest. He turns to look at Charles, and grins.

"Look-!" _Out_. The motorcycle jumps the sudden bank and Erik throws himself on the handlebars, landing with a bang and managing to hold the bucking machine until it levels out. Charles tries to catch his breath from the sudden shock and the deceleration. Erik gasps and slows to the point he can put a foot down and edge the Ariel back onto the road.

"Don't do that." Charles coughs.

"Do you want to drive?" Erik turns around again, his face is a mask of dust, eyes half-squinted and lashes clogged with it. "You know where we're going."

Charles hesitates, and Erik sees what he's thinking. He grins. "Yes."

Charles lifts his hands. "Not fast."

"We're safe."

_And if we end up in a ditch with broken necks-_ it's probably a sign of something that the thought just engenders a profound sense of annoyance. Although a sign of what, Charles has no idea. He covers Erik's eyes with his hands. He can feel the muscles shift as Erik smiles again.

_Show me where we're going then._

Charles sits up and looks over Erik's shoulder and opens his mind. The Ariel starts off again, much slowly this time, bumping off ancient cart tracks and weaving around corners as Erik drives from behind his own shoulder. They hit a rock and sway, and Charles gives a bark of laughter at how absurd they must look at that moment.

_There_. That was the turn off he'd seen in the woman's mind, half obscured by dead bracken. He hadn't shown Erik what he'd seen, in case it was a disappointment, and now he makes sure his hands are covering his friend's eyes. "Do you trust me?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

And off they bounce again, Erik with one hand up to ward off low-hanging branches, Charles' hands are hot and slipping, but every time he puts them back he feels closed eyes, so hopefully Erik's not peeking.

They drove away from the coast in leaving the city, but they must be close now, Charles can hear the waves. through the trees. The track is barely there now and the Ariel is rattling along grassy hillocks and bare riverbeds. The ground is getting sandier, turning to dunes ahead.

The motorcycle grinds to a stop. "I don't want sand getting into the joints." Erik's lips brush against the skin of Charles' wrist. It makes him shiver and bring is home that they are here miles from anywhere or anyone by what Charles can feel.

Charles shuts off the link, but doesn't remove his hands.

"Charles."

_Shh_, Charles brushes his lips against the back of Erik's neck. A nuzzle, a lick. He brushes his hair aside and nips at his right ear. _I'll show you when we get there, I've heard it's beautiful._

* * *

><p>Erik keeps his eyes closed anyway as they dismount and leave the Ariel. Charles keeps his hands over Erik's eyes and guides him up a rough sandy hill, Erik tripping over twigs and loose roots, then up another, this one looser, in which their feet sink. The sound of the sea is very close, and the smell of salt sharp. They must be out of the trees, because Erik can feel the heat of the late morning sun. Charles drops his hands, but Erik doesn't open his eyes at once.<p>

He reaches out with his mind, but there's not much to feel. There's the motorcycle behind them, Charles' belt and buttons, and something large and dense out to sea, but everything else is the calm, warm thrum of the world, reassuring him that it's still there, that it's the same world he wakes up to every morning, and not the one that he remembers.

Erik opens his eyes, and it's so bright he immediately closes them again. He squints and tries again, shielding his face with one hand as the world comes into focus.

There's so close to the sea that they're practically in the surf. It's high tide and the waves come lapping almost to the tree line. The sea is the same dazzling blue, the sand rough and soft at once, the trees cast comfortable shadows and there's no one for miles in any direction.

"I didn't think it would be like this." Charles murmurs, "People tend to exaggerate in memories, so I thought-"

Erik turns, blocks out the view of paradise around them and pulls Charles' head up to a kiss that burns _shock want lust_ though his head.

Charles' fingers thread through his hair- there's enough of it now to them to knot in twice to keep his head in place- and the contact is enough to send the chanted litany of _god I want you god so beautiful god you taste wonderful god more sweet want yes-_

Erik legs buckle and Charles shifts his hands to his shoulders, and they both ease down to the sand. Charles' lips press harder, demanding and the moment he opens his mouth it's so full and hot and slick and his own hands on Charles' bare head.

_Want, want you, I want, so much-_ "Do you know what I want?" Charles pulls back, licks his lips, one hand on each side of Erik's head. He's wound so tight it's almost like despair. "I wish - god- I wish it was always-" Erik sits up and presses their mouths together none-too gently - "mmm I wish I could make everyone just disappear. Just you and me, and the world. Nothing else. Just us." Wouldn't that be-" Erik kisses him again, pulling him back down on top.

Charles' hands scrabbles for his belt until Erik takes pity on them both and just undoes it, an ungraceful wrench that'll need to be fixed before he can use it again. Charles doesn't complain, sliding a hand along Erik's stomach to his cock and giving it a hard stoke that has Erik arching and gasping for air against his mouth. All hands and lips, hot slick flesh and Erik's bare feet - he'd kicked off his shoes at some point - kicking grooves in the sand. He's thrashed a hollow under his head and Charles presses him back into in with one bruising kiss after another until their mouths just taste of each other.

Warm hands against his skin, cool hands like water in his mind, Charles curling up inside him, all _yesyesyesy loveyou wantyou wanttobeinsideyoualways_ and broadcasting to the glorious emptiness around them. Charles strokes him faster, guides Erik's hands to his own cock, and it's just too much, and he doesn't have to muffle anything, groaning and crying out and Charles pants his own release against his cheek.

They eventually have to move because however used they are to the Palestinian sun it's not wise to stay out too long at midday, and besides, soon the tide has risen enough to lap at their feet. They retreat into the shade of the trees, but it's not worth going any further. It's warm here, they're alone, there's food and water and they're alone. Erik wonders if they will ever require more from the world than just that. Life stripped down to its bare essentials. A simple way of living.

Charles kisses him. He's still stretched out, making sure there's no one.

"How far can you go?" There are no landmarks in the mind.

Charles shrugs. _Far enough_. His reach is like a whirlpool, spread out over however many - what? Feet, meters? Miles? - everything down back into the vortex that is Charles. Erik the lone point of light.

Erik sits up, then gets up. Charles blinks, and obediently gives Erik a leg up into the overhanging tree. It's lean and wiry, but quite tall, and the lowest branch is still high enough Erik has to lie flat on it and grab for Charles' hand to get him up. He catches Charles' arm, and they grapple a moment and Erik has to pull until the muscles on his no longer quite so thin arms stand out like ropes, and Charles managed to get hold of the branch. It's stupidly satisfying.

* * *

><p>Charles manages to get both hands on the branch and levels himself up. Erik's right, it is absurd. He's had a year and they're both far too light, but being able to do anything physically taxing and succeeding has been an alien feeling for too long. And doing something <em>frivolously<em> taxing as climbing a tree... Like reaching through the last four years (_if not longer_) and touching the child he had been, so long ago. For a moment, Charles just sits on the branch, resting his head against Erik's shoulder, the memories mixing.

_A night on the school roof with binoculars, a spring spent climbing trees to find bird's nests. The constellations spread out across the sky so bright as to be almost dazzling. The tiny naked birds, black eyes like pin-pricks. Straddling a gabled roof, arms outstretched, pretending to fly. Standing on the top of the highest tower in the mansion, wind in his face to drive away the noise downstairs._

Erik kisses him again. Charles' lips are raw with it. "Come on."

It's not like climbing before, all daring jumps and convinced invincibility of youth. They climb carefully, mindful of uncertain muscles and bones still too brittle to stand a fall. The memory of pain is still far too close to take risks. They climb one branch at a time, pushing each other up the difficult bits. And on one particularly irritating climb Erik just reaches out a hand, concentrates, and a chunk of rusted iron the length of his arm appears in it, called up from somewhere out to sea. He drives it into the bark and now they have a handhold. His mind throws out satisfied triumph like sunlight _look what I did!_

Finally, it's as far as they can go, heads just poking out of the broad leaf cover. They're not that high up, only about twenty feet. But it's still enough Charles would rather not look down. Erik, on the other hand, is as good as a Red Indian, completely fearless. Charles hugs the branch and looks out over the sea. The fishing fleet is out, little white dots on sail on the horizon.

"Well, come on." Erik points.

Charles quirks a smile, unwinding one hand from its white-knuckled grip on the branch to reach out towards the ships. He reaches out, pushes. Nothing.

He looks at Erik, who raises an eyebrow. Charles sighs, and looks down at the leaves. He's fooling himself, and that never works with Erik there to poke holes in his delusions. He doesn't _want_ to find anyone. The world is perfect as it is, with the silence of the two of them and no other human thoughts. What if someone noticed what he was doing, and came to find them-

He'd make them forget, or sail away, or jump overboard if he wants to. It's _good_, what he can do. As good as Erik's powers. He can keep them safe, and well, and happy, ever bit as well as Erik can.

A rueful smile and Charles reaches out again. It's not far, because there's nothing like distance here. He can reach out his hand and pick up the tiny ships out of the water like so many paper boats. Perception is reality here.

The minds pour in like a flood, languages he doesn't understand, calling for rope, for sail, for fishing nets. The rough scrape of the nets underhand, the heavy slippery weight of the fish, the joy of it bright as the sun. The sun on weather-beaten skin, in eyes shadowed by decades. The cry of gulls, the roar of the men from their own throats to scare off the thieving birds.

"You felt them?" Erik's voice breaks in and the moment ends.

"You didn't?" Charles blinks. At Erik's shake of the head he grabs his hand and raises their hands to the ships again. "Here."

And this time Erik is with him, skipping over the wave like gulls, like flying fish, from mind to mind sliver sharp and invisible. They watch the catches hauled in, hear the wet slap of fish being poured into the bowels of the boats, the wallowing weight of the fishing fleet as it grows heavier and heavier, more difficult to turn and slower to sail as the men follow the shoals out to deeper waters. The joy of the fishermen as they revelled in their catch.

Charles laughs. "Do you think we brought them luck?" His skin feels as though it should be wet and salt-worn.

Erik grins, "What about the fish? You could make them come to the nets?"

The thought makes Charles giddy. It's a lovely idea. It's a matter of moments to sink his mind down from that of the fishermen into the simple _eat/breed/flight_ mind of the fish shoals. He point them at the boats, then, on an impulse, orders them to jump into the boats.

They jump. One, two, three, ten, fourteen. The fishermen shriek in surprise and delight as the fish literally throw themselves into the boats. They shout and pick up the fish and wave it at each other, laughing as the little boats fill themselves. Some call out thanks to their gods, _Allah/Jesus/G-d_. Wave at the clouds and shout for joy. Minds full of the money they'd make, the good that would come of it. Pictures of dresses for wives, presents for children, a new house, a new boat, an outboard motor. Their happiness fills the sky.

Erik is laughing too, eyes shining and his hand grasping Charles's shoulder. Charles hugs him and they laugh until they almost fall out of the tree. Charles cannot ever remember being this happy. Not since early childhood, he's sure, and he has no memories of that. This is the apex, the glory. This is as good as it gets. Crystallise this moment forever, hold it in his heart for the rest of his life. A beacon for the darkness.

Erik kisses him, and they laugh against each other, breath and lips warm. Charles holds on, hands linked behind Erik's back, resting his head against his chest as the euphoria drains out, leaving a bone-deep contentment that, if anything, is even better.

* * *

><p>It's drawing on for afternoon by the time they get out of the tree, their skin already red from the sun. Charles runs a hand over his head and winces.<p>

They sit back in the shade and watch the waves lapping at the treeline, unpack their little picnic and settle in for a late lunch. Erik's just about to bite into one sandwich before he decides to bring up something he'd been wondering, in the back of his mind where Charles might not have seen it.

Charles looks at him, raises an eyebrow.

"Those men." Erik starts, peeling the bread back from his sandwich to inspect the contents. Chicken. "They thought god did that."

Charles smiles, and shrugs. "It's the sort of thing you'd expect, isn't it? It's all very loaves and fishes, and-" He waves a hand to indicate his lack of knowledge of theological comparisons.

Erik nods, bites into the sandwich - it goes crunch. The sand really does get everywhere - chews, swallows. "What if we are?"

"What, gods?" Charles blinks. His thought give an odd jump. He'd never considered that. It's a bit heretical-

Erik raises his hands and looks around theatrically. If god decides to show up _now_, to punish them, after _everything_- Erik might commit deicide.

Charles shakes his head, amused. "Maybe we're to look after the place while he's away." He says drily.

Erik looks down at the sandwich. If god thought he could clear out and let the Nazis- well, that- and then come back and everything would be okay - that would almost be worse than sitting around and not doing anything. If god was even there, which seems unlikely.

"Maybe we should." He challenges.

He can feel Charles try and decide if he should be taking this seriously. If he were to do the trick with the fish every day, it would quickly become a chore, and they'd soon run out of fish-

"Not like that." Erik still feels he's interrupting, in the silence. "With-" His hands trace invisible shapes in the air, creating a space in which memories of the camps can fit as he sends them in lieu of speech. Charles flinches. "Someone has to."

Charles considers this. The idea isn't a bad one, he likes it. Not hiding, not running, not trying to save themselves. Not the ragged, cowering image of them from the last four years. They stand tall with the sun behind them, powerful and fearless and not scared.

Not prisoners.

Not the result of some freak experiments.

"Gods." Charles says thoughtfully.


	6. Chapter 6

Present Perfect

Chapter Six

The library is old and far too small for the number of books crammed into it, a mixture of ancient books from the previous century, and several collections previously belonging to local people who fled the war. It's not the library at Havard, with its stacks and reading rooms, nor is it like his grandmother's house in Westchester; with entire rooms dedicated to books. But those places are so far away the books might be so much fog and smoke, and the books in this library are here and now.

Erik is hunched over one of the mismatched tables and chairs, reading one of the few pieces of recent literature in this place: One of a handful of science journals that a regular gets sent in from America and donates to the library when she's finished with them. Charles picks one from the stack, the January 1946 edition of _Science _magazine.

Charles holds it, more for the experience of holding it in his hands that any intention to read it. He holds it and steps back twelve years to his father, to his office in New York, to the huge; rambling family mansion they visited every holiday. Charles would leaf through the pages before he could even read the words, for the privilege of seeing his father laugh and ruffle his hair and _Well there's no doubt you're my son now, is there?_

Through Erik's eyes, he can feel Erik pick over the words, struggling to understand the jargon. He has the excuse of English being his third language –_ Fourth if you count Yiddish,_ Erik points out – and a patchwork education. Charles can barely understand it either, and Charles is one who went to Harvard.

Charles looks down at the science journal, confronted with the simple fact that he no longer understands what is written there. He's gone from writing studies that might have been accept in this damn magazine if it hadn't been for his age, and now he barely understands what they're writing. Everything he had, which had come so easily with his money and connections, and now he's back to square minus one.

Erik looks up, eyes warm under shading lashes. _Not lost. Buried maybe_. _We'll find it again. Together._

Charles smiles, and settles down next to Erik. Erik is back to staring at the journal, but his hand drifts down to rest on Charles' knee. Thus fortified, Charles looks down at the journal as though going into battle and opens randomly.

_ The Berlin incident, and the account of the Soviet Commissar of the 'being of light' that survived firepower enough to decimate half the city, and proceeded to destroy the Commissar's division of the 1st Ukrainian, can be easily dismissed as an underling attempting to concoct a story to cover his own failings."_

What? Charles flicks back to the beginning; _The Myth of Human Mutation_.

_"Accounts of individuals with so called superhuman abilities have been listed both here and in other publications as more than simple urban legend or war stories,"_

Something clenched in Charles' stomach, a sort of shock that has his fear of disappointment scrabbling to push away the hope rising in him.

" _but it is the intention here to shed light on these records and reveal these stories for the fiction that they are. The chief uniting nature of these claims of human mutants is the outlandishness of the powers they attach to the individuals cited. These include claims of individuals capable of flight, of instantly regenerating the most grievous wounds, of controlling and hurling bolts of energy (see the Berlin incident, p34)._

Charles doesn't say anything, or send anything to Erik; he doesn't want to share the disappointment if he is wrong. But Erik can feel the sharp scratchiness of his mind, and pushes back curiously. _Are you all right?_

_ I... just, look..._

Erik wonders what the author of this article would make of them. He wonders if they would try and find the wires Erik was using to lift things without touching them, or would pretend they were imagining Charles' voice in their head.

Whoever wrote the article didn't believe it. But then, who would? The fishermen called on god. Allens fooled himself into believing it was all trickery. They looked for every reason but the one staring them in the face; that Erik and Charles were something else, something more. Something glorious.

The spectre of Mengele and his superior rises, but they can fight now. Erik can turn their guns and scalpels and knives against them, and Charles could make them shoot themselves. There isn't even the reason to fear, and this far away, it's easy to feel invincible.

He wonders if this is what the prophets of old felt, when they heard people worshipping false gods. The urge to laugh, the feeling of being right, and stronger than they could ever imagine.

Charles looks up, and his eyes blaze "This is us." He whispers. It's a pointless thing to say, but he can feel Charles needs to say it, to hear it, to accept it to be true.

It's pure blind relief. Charles leans forward, hunched over and lets it wash over him. This is them. This is them as they are born, not made. Not monsters or mistakes or experiments. Not human, which would be worst of all. No blood on their new-born hands.

_We are gods_. Erik puts in.

Charles smiles. _We are mutants._ He tries out the word in his mind, bends it to suit them. It's not a bad fit.

_We can be both._

_But this way there may be others. Really others. Ones the Nazis didn't find. Like us._

_ Hiding, like us._

_ But there all the same. Our people._

Erik can barely fit his mind around it. He had a people. There's not much left of them. The Jewish people of Palestine are so far from the village of his childhood and the ghetto of his adolescence that they might be a different faith altogether. They are not like him or Charles. The idea that there might be people out there who were, that he could meet them, and they would know what it was like to see without eyes or touch without skin... it's almost as frightening as it is joyful. All wonderful things are.

Erik lowers his head, and smiles. Lets the joy wash over him as well. They need not be alone. There are others like them. A nation of gods.

Sleep is hard to come by that night. Charles is still so excited he feels as though something inside him is trembling. They eat silently, without even sharing thoughts beyond the blood-deep thrill of it. They finish their rounds for the evening. Charles hesitates, one hand above a sleeping woman. He could. Today, for the first time it feels like it's under his control. His ability, his... power. Mutant power. Human mutant.

Somehow, just knowing what it is makes it better than any amount of control.

They collapse into bed late that night, and Charles is still too excited to stay still. Erik pulls him down and forces him to sit. Charles does for a few moments, before starting to rise to pace the room again. Erik yanks him back down and sits behind him, arms across his shoulders and legs around his waist to keep him in place.

Charles exhales, forces himself to relax. Erik kisses the side of his neck. He's happy. It's not the blinding, riveting joy that fills Charles' bones, but it's there. A quiet ocean deep sense of satisfaction, in having confirmed something he'd known from the beginning. That this was something they were, not a result of some Nazi experiment. Them from beginning to end, them as they had been born, not maddened humans, but their own kind.

Charles sighs, and relaxs into Erik's embrace, feeling his friend's thoughts calm his. Erik's thoughts flash pleasure that Charles is finally relaxing and they might go the bed at some point.

"But, Erik." Charles feels the hot thrill rising inside him again. "_Think_ about it. If there are more of us, we can't stay hidden forever. They'll have to find out about us, sooner or later-"

_Shh_. "Later." Erik's voice is a sleepy purr in his ear. "Later then. Charles, we have to sleep." He wants to sleep before he can think of anything that can ruin this feeling. He wants to curl up around it, between it and Charles, and sleep. He leans back and pulls Charles with him.

Charles lets him. Closes his eyes and tries to bury himself in that warm place in Erik's mind. Vague thoughts drift through the contentment like deep-sea fish. Erik wonders what his family would have thought, had he shown what he could do while they were still alive.

They would have loved him all the same. That knowledge is bedrock. As certain and Erik's conviction that they would have loved Charles had they had the chance to meet him. His family would have loved him no matter who he fell in love with. Even as a god, his family would have loved him.

If he were a god, his family wouldn't have died.

The contentment turns to ice, and Erik shudders. Charles feels the tremble under him and turns over to look him in the face.

They wouldn't have died. He could have saved them. He'd saved himself, and he'd had no idea what he was doing. He could have saved them, he could have killed the soldiers and freed the ghetto and broken the camps open. He could-

"You were a child." Charles whispers.

Erik blinks, his losing their lost look and focusing on Charles.

"You were a child." Charles insisted. "I was a child. Do you think I should have stopped them?"

"No, you know I-"

"I could have." Charles insisted. "Like you could. But you were a child. Like I was. It wasn't your fault."

Erik looks away, staring at the ceiling. Charles' words sink into his mind like stones in a pond and breaks the ice. Calm returns, although the joy is faded.

Charles pushes himself up and strokes hair out of Erik's face. Erik looks at him, and gives a tiny smile. "We don't have that excuse now."

Erik nods, closing his eyes. He's tired. Charles nuzzles under his chin and he exhales gently. _Not your fault. I will not let you blame yourself when the blame belongs to them._

For all his exhaustion, Erik's sleep is agitated and confused. His dreams keep trying to return to the camps, and strike against the nets Charles had woven in his mind to keep him away. Erik dreams of webs and confusion, struggling to get free from the shadows and the tangles.

All he wants is true sleep, to pull himself free and sink into a place where there are no dreams. He pulls and pulls and finally feels something inside his head come loose and the effort of it is enough that he slips finally off to real sleep.

_ERIK!_

Erik jerks awake at the shout in his head and in his ears. He's cold for some reason, he shakes his head, his head is aching. The ground is cold under him; he must have fallen out of bed. Opening his eyes, the world is blurred and the perspective wrong. Charles is hanging above him, face a mask of fear.

Erik shakes his head, he just fell out of bed, what is Charles-

Erik looks down, the ground is not the usual bare scrubbed boards, but whitewashed pebbled. And above him- Charles isn't just above him, as he would be, but a long, long way up. And there is the bed. Erik can see him on the bed. And the spare bed beside him, and the pile of their clothes on-

On the floor.

For a moment, Erik thinks he is about to scream. It feels as though some other, terrified person is taking control of his mouth. His grits his teeth and tries to find something to hang on to on the ceiling.

Charles staggers up, standing on the bed, reaching up to grab Erik's arm. Erik is too terrified to move in case he somehow comes unstuck and falls.

"I- how-" Charles stammers. "I think there's stepladder-" His mind flies to whether he should get anyone. It would reveal the truth but Erik can't stay stuck the ceiling forever, maybe he could make them forget afterwards-

"Stop." Erik grits out. His mind is spinning enough without Charles adding to it. He looks down. It's a long way down but at least he'd land on the bed. With a terrific effort he pulls his arm from the ceiling and reaches down to catch Charles'. Oddly, it feels completely normal. As though gravity had been reversed, just for him.

Charles pulls, but Erik doesn't move. His arms might be free, but his back feels as though it's part of the ceiling.

"Erik." Charles gapes. At least he's calmer. Whatever is happening, at least Erik is fine. "I – wait here." There is a stepladder on the landing. Charles scrambles out without even putting any clothes on.

Erik blinks, then collapses with a groan and closes his eyes. He doesn't feel any different. He feels fine. He's just upside down.

Charles comes back in, carrying the stepladder in both hands. He sets it up and climbs up. Erik reaches down with both hands, and Charles tries to pull him down. It doesn't work now either.

Erik tries to think what he did. He must have done it while asleep, which just makes it harder. Charles touches his mind and sifts through his thoughts, trying to find where Erik might have done it.

There was that moment, that unknotting inside him when something had come free. The moment his mind touches it, Erik feels it again, and falls.

He lands half on the stepladder and half on Charles, and the ladder tips and pitches them both on the bed in a tangle of limbs.

Erik draws in a breath, the world suddenly the right way up again and a stabbing pain in his leg where he will probably have quite a bruise. Charles is struggling for breath where he's had the breath knocked out of him. Erik sits up and rubs his back, soothing.

Charles pushes himself up, finally dragging in a full breath. "What did you _do_?"

Erik sits, hugging his sore leg. "I don't know."

Charles nudges the place in his head that had reversed gravity. _Here?_

"Yes." Erik rubs the side of his head, as though to touch that strange place. _What is it like?_

Charles shakes his head and rolls over to lie of his side, looking up at Erik. "I'm not sure how to describe it. Like part of your head."

Erik nudges the place, pulls and shoves, and feels... lift. As thought something tying him to the ground, the force of gravity, isn't there so much anymore. A hot flash of excitement.

Charles sits up, "What?"

"Come on." Erik gets up.

They put on trousers and shirts, but don't bother with shoes as Charles follows Erik down the stairs, their bare feet making no sound on the bare boards. The night staff are busy cleaning up for the morning, but they're not deaf. Charles reaches out, and pushes against their minds, keeping it away from them. Erik smiles.

_Where are we going?_

_Shh._

Outside, the sky is into the barely grey light of pre-dawn, Charles shivers. It's absurd, it's nowhere near the same cold, but Charles' bones remember the cold of Polish winter, and dread any reminder of it. Erik rolls out the Ariel and beckons. Inside of mounting up, they walk down the street away from the hospital, pushing the motorcycle, bare feet on the dusty stones.

Erik rests his free hand on Charles' shoulder. He squeezes. Charles glances around, reaches with his mind to make sure no one is watching, and leans over for a kiss. Erik's lips are warm and sweet. He stops, holds the Ariel upright in his mind, and pulls Charles in for a proper kiss. He's shockingly warm, giving off heat like a radiator, and his arms are strong around Charles. Charles leans in and kisses Erik again, driving the memory of cold out of his bones.

Erik tilts his head to the side, deepening the kiss, tongue hot and slippery in Charles' mouth. Charles breaks the kiss, catches his breath in the air that suddenly tastes like the arctic.

"Are you sure?" _We could go back, go to bed. There are hours left-"_ He leaves the rest unsaid.

Erik hesitates, then nods. "I can't try this here. We need to go out." He looks at the motorcycles, puts a hand on the handlebars. "I want to try this."

Erik wants this so badly. Charles can feel his thoughts press against that place in his mind, a hand over a switch. Charles smiles. _Alright._

Erik straddles the Ariel, and Charles gets on the back, the metal warm under them. Charles feels Erik smile, and his amusement at Charles' enthusiasm. Charles shifts, and kisses the side of Erik's neck. _Come now, as though you're not interested._

"Shh, let's go."

They don't go anywhere. That's the point. They drive into the countryside outside the city, into the dusty fields and olive trees. But that's not right either. Charles shakes his head, he can sense people nearby, farmers starting work, grove owners making their first rounds. They keep driving.

Charles is worrying that they won't be able to get in time for their shift, and finally, they find the right place. It's rocky and sparse, boulders and tussocky grass. They are quite alone. Charles isn't sensing anyone for miles.

Erik pulls the Ariel over, and they dismount. Charles leans it flat on the ground, and Erik walks out a few steps. They sky is lighter, but the sun hasn't risen yet. Charles feel Erik press against that place in his mind, trying to make whatever it was happen again.

"Erik." Charles sits down by the Ariel. "Are you sure?" If he can't control it, he might not be able to stop.

"I can do this," Erik insists.

Charles nods. "Ready?" He touches Erik's mind, reassuring himself.

Nothing happens. He's thinking it wrong, he has to be. The world is still under his feet, and although he is feeling lighter, nothing. Erik presses against it again, but still nothing, he pushes harder. Nothing. Harder and finally something rips free and the world is catapulted away.

Charles' shout rings in his ears and his head, Erik throws his arms out to stop, the wind howling past him, buffeting his, wind cutting through his clothes-

_ STOP!_ Erik shouts, out loud or in his head, he doesn't know.

There's peace, silence but for his breathing. The faintly cloudy grey sky is still above him. Erik cranes his head back to look down.

He's not that high up. He's hanging half upside down, as though he'd been dragged up by one foot. Charles is about twenty feet down, looking up with his mouth open. Erik tries to smile reassuringly, opens his mouth to say something comforting and gets a mouthful of his own hair. He spits, and Charles smiles.

He pulls and twists, trying to get upright, finally there's a way to push in his mind and he turns the right way up, standing in midair. His lifts his arms, relaxes his hold and drifts down until he's hovering just above the ground.

Charles walks over. "You can fly."

Erik grins, then, before Charles has time to read it from his mind, drags Charles into his arm and pulls them up again.

_Erik!_

Erik laughs, it is whipped away. He can feel Charles in the air, just as he can feel himself, keeping them both aloft. He slows their ascent, hugs Charles tighter and feels him laugh in his mind, against his chest.


End file.
